


Escape Velocity

by chemm80



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-09
Updated: 2009-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/377994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemm80/pseuds/chemm80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are stuck in one place while Sam recovers from an injury.  Dean has a little trouble adjusting. </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   Back in August,[](http://katiki7.livejournal.com/profile)[ **katiki7**](http://katiki7.livejournal.com/) told me how she'd heard that musicians coming off tour often have trouble adjusting to real life.  "For months or years while on tour, they wake up in a different bed and a different city almost every morning, and they’re always seeing and doing exciting new things, and developing close bonds with the people they travel and work and play with in tight quarters, and they have the adrenaline rush of performing every night. They call this state of mind being in 'tourhead.'"  Thus was born what came to be known (affectionately and otherwise) as "the tourhead fic". 

Fuckin’ hospitals,” Dean mutters, then raises the volume a notch. “Would it killsomebody to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

 

He wipes a hand across his mouth and tosses the ragged magazine on the waiting room table. It hits with a loud slap. The looks he’s getting from the room’s other inhabitants are edgy and it’s no fuckingwonder _._ He knows what he looks like: face and hands striped with cuts and scratches, clothes dirty and shredded. Let ‘em think what they want. Dean’s too tired to care. 

 

The orthopedic surgeon’s explanation was pretty detailed: open fracture of the right ankle with dislocation, complications of which might include arthritis, ankle deformity and even delayed amputation if it happens to get infected, which the doctor implied is a distinct possibility. This registers an order of magnitude higher on the assault and battery scale than the crap they routinely limp through with a field med kit and a bottle of Jack. And how fucked up is it that there’s such a long list of bodily damage they file under “routine”?

 

_It should be a routine job. Tip from one of Bobby’s contacts, another wendigo. It’s not supposed to be this far west, but apparently Colorado’s lousy with the damned things. They’re not even seriously hunting it when it happens. They’re just scouting, tracking it by its bloody spoor, when everything goes south. Yeah, it’s all routine—right up until Sam screams._

 

_Pure animal pain is all Dean hears. The sound hits him low in his back and rockets up his spine like an electric shock, jolts him into overdrive. He runs, crashing through the thick brush, branches slapping at his face, thorns tearing at his clothes. He comes to the drop-off; the sound came from here somewhere. Dean can hear Sam’s sobbing breaths. Thank_ fuck _, he’s alive. Conscious even, it sounds like._

_“Sam!” Dean shouts down the slope. He can see him now. Sam’s wedged on his side between a tree trunk and the hillside. He’s looking up, toward Dean’s voice, but Dean doesn’t think he’s seeing much. Sam looks panicked, and that’s bad._

_“Don’t move!” Dean barks, but he can already see there’s no way Sam’s going anywhere. Dean starts down the steep grade, boot heels digging into the dirt, down-slope foot spraying pine needles as he brakes next to his brother._

_Dean gives him a quick once-over, trauma assessment kicking in automatically—breathing and circulation first, then work your way down from head to toe. Sam’s breathing, that’s clear—it’s loud, the air moving in and out in pained gasps and grunts, like he’s trying not to move any more than he has to. There’s blood, enough that Dean can smell it, some across his face. Cut on his forehead. More blood soaked through Sam’s shirt over his left ribcage and Dean peels the wet fabric back. There’s a ragged gash. Dean can’t tell how bad it is, but the blood’s oozing, not squirting or gushing. Good enough for now._

 

_Dean works his way down and sees the real problem— left ankle, twisted back at a sickening angle. He lifts the leg of Sam’s jeans up and away from his lower leg. Sam’s shaking and swearing. Dean’s seen a lot of nasty injuries, but this…he can’t…oh, fuck…can’t lose his shit right now, but he’s so close. There’s a half-inch of bone sticking through the skin of his brother’s lower leg._   

 

“Mr. Smith?’

 

Dean looks up, hitching only a split second before recognizing the name. The tired-eyed doctor looks like ten miles of bad road, but he’s a specialist, supposed to be good. He’d better be.

 

“How’s my brother?” he asks, voice rough with fatigue and too much coffee. 

 

“He’ll be in recovery for the next hour or two, but he’s doing fine. Got everything nailed back together.” He shakes his head. “Nasty injury, that. But he’s young and in good shape. He’ll heal well as long as he takes care, doesn’t overdo it.”

 

“Thanks, doc,” Dean says, swallowing hard and extending a hand. The doctor takes it and nods, then turns and walks away. 

 

Dean wasn’t surprised when they said Sam’s ankle needed surgery.  He knew this wasn’t something you could fix with a splint and an Ace bandage, or they wouldn’t even be here. Sam might’ve been able to hunt with his arm in a cast—and how the kid had managed to break another damned bone so fast, Dean can’t figure—but he won’t be hunting again for a while. 

 

The thing is, Dean’s not wild about interfacing with the healthcare system and its obsession with documentation at the best of times, and this isn’t even remotely one of those. Events have been moving fast and ugly—arrested in Baltimore, for fuck’s sake— and the last thing they need right now is to blip the grid. Still, laying low for a while might actually be a good thing.   It makes Dean’s skin itch just to think about it, but he has to face it. Sam’s hurt. Dean’s off his game.

 

**

 

“Okay, on three,” Dean says. 

 

He’s got Sam sitting with his legs turned out of the passenger door of the Impala, his forearms hooked under Sam’s armpits. He’s just hoping Sam’s got his good foot braced on the ground, that he’s going to be a little help here, because his brother’s roughly the size and weight of a refrigerator and just about as awkward to move. Sam has crutches, but he can’t really use them because of the stitches in his side. This ain’t gonna be pretty.

 

 

“One, two, three…” Dean counts, and heaves Sam to his feet. Sam does help a little, but the sound he makes when he does it just about unlocks Dean at the knees. It’s somewhere between a groan and a grunt, bitten-off expression of pain, even though the anesthesia probably hasn’t even completely worn off yet. 

 

It pisses Dean off. He’s not mad at Sam; of course he’s not. Sam should be in a hospital bed right now, but hell, that’d be too easy, wouldn’t it? The “Smith brothers” had to get out of the hospital before somebody came looking. Sam was barely awake from the surgery when Dean took him. They made Dean sign him out AMA—Against Medical Advice.  _Yeah, no shit. Fuckin’ FBI._  

 

Dean’s propped the door of the motel room beforehand, and they finally manage to limp inside. The whole procedure is a mess of flailing limbs and staggering, stumbling and swearing. Dean knows he’s hurting Sam, no way he can’t be, so he just makes it as quick as he reasonably can, tries to ignore the way Sam’s breathing sounds like sobbing, the sweat that breaks out across his brother’s forehead. He half-carries him to the nearest bed and lowers him onto it. Dean gets the bottle of Vicodin from his bag, looks at the label. It says one or two, but Sam’s not even supposed to be out of the fucking hospital bed and Dean knows what he needs better than any doctor. He digs out three. 

 

He gets the pills down Sam and settles him in the bed.  _God_ , Dean hates this. And they’re just getting started. 

 

Sam falls asleep in a couple of minutes, but he’s restless, keeps muttering, occasionally flailing an arm. Dean’s tired, too, but he doesn’t try to sleep. They’ve been here before and Dean knows he won’t be resting much for the next few days. He sets out his whetstone and goes to work on the knives. Switchblade, Bowie, machete—one follows another, and he loses himself in the rhythm. The quiet rasp of the blade, white noise of his childhood, always makes Dean remember drifting off to sleep to the sound of steel scraping stone. He works for a while and then it quiets Sam, too.

 

Dean’s finished the knives, re-fletched a couple of arrows and moved on to sharpening the broadheads, when the retching starts. He checks the clock; it’s been about three hours. Sam’s right on schedule. 

 

**

 

“Here…take it easy…not too fast,” Dean says, handing Sam a glass of water and a damp washcloth. 

 

Dean flops back in the chair and rubs the back of his neck tiredly. Should have let the hospital keep Sam a little longer. It’s always fucking like this. Sam takes days to get over anesthesia, always has. The puking and whining and pissing and moaning has been going on for three days now, and Dean is here dealing with it in a damned motel room, when he could be flirting with some cute nurse while somebody else cleans up the mess. 

 

Typical.

 

_Christ_ , Dean would rather sew up a dozen wounds than deal with puke, although it’s looking like he might have to pull out the needle and thread pretty soon anyway, the way it’s going. All the throwing up hasn’t exactly been easy on Sam’s stitches, and the wound was a shredded mess in the first place—courtesy of a tree branch, best Dean can figure. He pulls the trashcan closer to the side of the bed as Sam moans and flops back down against the pillow. He’s six-foot-five-inches of pathetic misery—stringy hair, pale, sunken cheeks covered with three-day stubble, and stink rising into the air so thick it’s almost visible. 

 

Dean shakes his head. They need a better place than this long term. Shit, the smell alone is gonna drive them out of here before long. He sits down at the table and fires up the laptop. 

 

“Dean,” Sam says hoarsely. Dean has to force his teeth to unlock from the clench the word initiates before he answers. 

 

“What d’ya need?” Dean grates, biting the word “now” off the end of the sentence before it can escape.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says.

 

Dean flicks him a sideways glance before pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. He’s getting a headache. Great.

 

“It’ll stop pretty soon.”

 

“No, I mean sorry for all…this,” Sam gestures weakly and Dean gets it. He’s apologizing for getting hurt, for tying them down and giving the FBI a chance to catch their scent. Dean shakes his head, looks away.  _Christ._

 

**

 

Castle Rock, Colorado, population 35,745. It’s less than an hour from Denver, where Sam’s doctor is, and it’s as good a place as any to hide out from the feds. The house Dean found them is small but cheap, and they don’t need much space. They eat when they’re hungry and sleep when they’re tired, usual downtime drill.

 

Sam’s still a little sore but at least he doesn’t feel like swearing every time he moves. The cut across his ribs has healed up pretty well. It’s still ugly, but the stitches are out and it looks like he finally managed to keep enough of the antibiotics down to clear any incipient infection. It’s been about two weeks since his fall. Stupid accident, no monster at fault, but they’re out of the game now for at least another month. He should be sorry about that with everything that’s going on, but he can’t really make himself care about what they might be missing. His visions—psychic abilities, or whatever they are—seem to have let up for a while and he’s grateful for the break. They need it.

 

Sam’s trying to read, an activity he hasn’t had time to do for pleasure in he can’t remember how long, when something hits him in the temple. 

 

“Ow.” Sam frowns at Dean irritably. Dean’s sitting at the table with the laptop open in front of him, acting like he didn’t just fire another damned peanut M&M at Sam’s head. 

 

“Seriously, Dean, are you four? Never mind—don’t answer that.” 

 

Sam picks up the candy and flicks it back with his thumb and forefinger, but Dean’s ready for it and he dodges. It hits the window with a crack and Dean laughs.  _Bastard_. 

 

Dean’s quiet for a minute and Sam goes back to his book. Then Dean gets up from the chair abruptly and the noise starts. Dean’s bouncing a tennis ball against the floor and the wall—over and over and goddamn over again. Sam’s trying to ignore him, and seriously, where did Dean even get a stupid tennis ball? Sam knows he should just stay quiet, but Dean can keep this shit up for-fucking-ever when he wants to be a pest, which is usually, and finally Sam can’t stop himself.

 

“Dude. Seriously,” Sam says, glaring at him.

 

“What?” Dean says innocently.

 

Dean’s got that smirk on his face that makes Sam hand itch with the urge to slam his fist into it. He grinds his teeth together instead. 

 

“If you don’t stop that, I swear to God…”

 

Dean chuckles. “What are you gonna do, gimp-boy? Beat me to death with a crutch?”

 

“It’s a thought,” Sam mutters.

 

“Like to see you try,” Dean laughs. “It’d be the shortest fight you ever started. Although it would be something to do, I guess. Kind of hard up for entertainment around here.” 

 

Sam can’t really argue with that. They are stuck here with nothing to keep them busy, and it is Sam’s fault, more or less. But Dean’s tone is easy, without accusation, and Sam decides to just let it go. Dean sits back down and Sam starts to read again. Just about the time he finds his place in the book, Dean lets one rip. 

 

“Shit, Dean.” Sam literally gags, it stinks so bad. “Oh fuck…seriously, man, what is that? Damn…smells like a skunk crawled up your ass and died, _Jesus_.”

 

Dean’s laughing harder with every word and Sam reaches for his crutches and stumps out the front door, muttering under his breath, “God, we gotta get some decent food, eat something besides burritos, holy shit…”

 

Sam eases his way down the porch steps and out into the scrap of front yard. He’s taking deep breaths of fresh air and trying to stretch his legs, or his good one anyway. The toes on his left foot are permanently cramped from the cast. He’s trying to move them without much success, when he hears the door on the neighbor’s house open and shut. 

 

There’s a girl, looks about his age. She comes down the steps and heads his way. She has a dog on a leash—or maybe he has her; it’s kind of hard to tell. The dog is spotted brown and white and rawboned, twitching and jerking on the leash, stump of a tail wagging frantically as he tries to sniff everywhere at once. The girl is nice-looking in the fresh-faced, outdoorsy way of so many Colorado girls Sam’s seen. Dark blond hair, lightly tanned face, tight little body...and Sam puts a lid on that thought, because she’s walking/getting dragged toward him now, and he’d rather not make an idiot of himself the first time he meets their nearest neighbor. Girl next door.

 

She manages to haul the dog to a stop just short of Sam’s feet. He smiles at her and she smiles back, and right then he starts to think he might be in trouble, because she was pretty from a distance, but that smile… _Jesus._  

 

“Jax, seriously,” she says, grabbing the dog’s collar. “Sit, come on… _sit_ , already.”

 

“Jax?” 

 

“Oh, yeah, my mom was a big Jackson Browne fan, and…” she stops with a small chuckle. “Sorry, you probably don’t care…I get carried away talking about my boy here. I’m Kelly Marshall.” 

 

“Sam,” he says and nods back at the house. “I guess we’re neighbors,” he adds, wincing slightly.  _Good job, lame-ass_. 

 

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

 

She keeps smiling at him, and he notices her eyes. They’re shining bright green and maybe it’s just a trick of the light, how gorgeous they are, but he only realizes he’s staring when he hears something behind him on the doorstep. Sam turns to look, and Jax suddenly jerks the leash out of Kelly’s hand. The dog lunges toward the house, shooting between Sam and his right crutch, knocking it out from under him. 

 

“Jax, you idiot…” Kelly shouts.

 

Sam’s going down, he’s going to go sprawling and look like a total idiot right now…but Kelly’s quick. 

 

“Whoa, careful there,” she says, as she forgets about the dog and jams her shoulder into Sam’s right armpit. He staggers, hops and catches himself before all of his weight falls on her, but it’s a near thing. They steady, and he notices how she just fits right under his arm, like she belongs there. His face is in her hair, and he takes in a breath and _God, she smells incredible,_ and it takes a lot longer for him to straighten up than it really should, but he takes another deep breath and he’s okay. He’s got it now. 

 

Then Kelly looks up at him. She’s _right there_ and he really doesn’t want her to move away. He hasn’t been here in a very long time, this close to a woman. Something tightens in his chest, makes it hard to breathe. Maybe it’s the Vicodin. 

 

Kelly breaks the look first, eases back and picks up the fallen crutch. Sam gets it situated under him and then they’re both talking at once.

 

“God, Kelly, I’m so sorry, are you all right? I didn’t mean to fall on you, I…”  
  
 

“Don’t apologize, Sam, geez, it was my idiot dog’s fault in the first place. I’m just glad you’re okay...” 

 

They both stop. But Sam’s not in trouble here, he’s not, because this is such a bad idea and he’s totally not going there. 

 

Kelly looks away then, directly behind Sam. Sam turns to see Dean laughing and playing with the dog, teasing him with the tennis ball from earlier. 

 

“Who’s your friend, Jax?” She asks, nods at Dean.

 

“Kelly, this is my brother, Dean,” Sam says. It doesn’t bother him that Dean turns his megawatt smile on her then, not at all.

 

“Hi, Dean. Sorry about the monster, here.” Kelly smiles back, then leans down to grab Jax by the collar. “Hey, buddy, found your ball, huh?”

 

Sam makes a face at Dean. Dean smirks. “He’s no trouble. Are you, boy?” Dean says, reaching down to pet the dog. “What breed is he?” 

 

Sam rolls his eyes, knows damned well Dean cares less than nothing about what kind of fucking dog it is; he’s just looking for the shortest route into Kelly’s pants.

 

“German shorthaired pointer. Got him from the shelter,” Kelly says, then laughs. "It was kind of an impulse. If I’d done my homework, I’d have known he wasn’t going to grow out of being so twitchy. He’s a handful.”

 

Dean chuckles. _So fake,_ Sam thinks, and now he wants to hit him again. But Kelly smiles and says, “Speaking of, I’d better get going, let Jax run for a while, or I’ll never get him settled down for the night. It was nice to finally meet you guys, though. Guess I’ll see you around.” She waves and turns back toward the street. Jax gets the idea and tears off, dragging Kelly behind him. 

 

When they’re out of earshot, Dean gives a soft whistle. “Man. I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go.”

 

“Wow. Did you think that up all by yourself?” Sam says.

 

“Shut up.”

 

**

 

When Sam wakes up that night it takes him a minute to shake off the dream. Jo was in it, or maybe it was Kelly, he’s not sure, he just remembers long blond hair. Just a dream, though—no visions since they’ve been here and Sam’s hoping it stays that way. He checks his watch—two-thirty a.m., damn it—but his foot’s throbbing too hard for him to go back to sleep. He gets up to find the Vicodin. There’s a light coming from the other room. Dean’s up, probably with the laptop, and Sam definitely doesn’t want to know what he’s doing with it. 

 

Sam falls back into a drugged sleep pretty quickly. He’s surprised when he gets up at 7:30 the next morning and Dean’s already up. Then he takes a second look at Dean’s red eyes and wonders if he slept at all. Dean’s reading a newspaper.

 

“Dude, why do you even bother?” Sam asks. “I mean seriously, how often has a case ever conveniently come to _us_?” Sam tripods himself to the refrigerator, checks inside. “Is that today’s paper?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean grunts, his usual charming morning self.

 

“Why didn’t you get some milk while you were out? I told you we were out yesterday.”

 

“Uh, cause there’s no cow in the front yard?”

 

Sam frowns at him. “What—you stole someone’s paper?” 

 

Dean ignores that, says, “And anyway, I’m not looking for a case; I’m looking for a job.”

 

Sam’s confused about the difference at first, then he gets it. “A job? An actual civilian job?”

 

“Gotta keep your giant ass in groceries somehow.”

 

“Yeah, like I’m the one eating everything in sight,” Sam says, with attempted sarcasm, but he’s not really feeling it.  It’s true that Dean usually does take care of most of their upkeep even when Sam’s not out of commission, but hearing Dean say it like that is different. Sam’s never felt like such a dead weight in his life. 

 

**

There’s a reason why Dean doesn’t work regular civilian jobs more often. Somehow the classifieds just aren’t full of ads that read: “WANTED: Ninja warrior. Knowledge of demons and Latin a plus.”   His skill set, impressive as it is, really isn’t that marketable. About the only other thing he knows is the inside of an engine, and he’d have to drive to Denver for that. He’s only found one job in town he’s even remotely willing to consider, working behind the counter of a locally owned auto parts store. It’ll suck, Dean’s sure, but he figures he can stand anything for a few weeks. They’ll also pay him cash off the books, a nice bonus he hadn’t counted on. 

 

Dean rubs his hand over his face and looks at Sam, stretched out on the couch. He’s sleeping like a baby, or he is if a baby snores like a chainsaw with a bad sparkplug. Dean lifts one of his own feet, holds it about two inches from Sam’s face. He’s been wearing these socks for three days and he knows how bad they stink, but Sam doesn’t react. He is _out._ Must be nice. Dean’s just about desperate enough to try some of Sam’s drugs himself.

 

Dean sighs and rubs his eyes. They’re dry and gritty and sore. It’s been like this pretty much every night since they moved in. He sleeps in short naps here and there during the day, but as soon as the sun goes down, Dean starts ramping up. The hunting life is nocturnal, mostly. They do work during the day, sure, but the heavy shit all goes down after dark. There’s nothing to hunt here, but his body hasn’t gotten the memo. Night falls and the darkness hits him like a shot of caffeine, sensitizing him until every sigh of wind through the trees ties his stomach in knots, every creak of the building settling makes him jump and itch for a weapon in his hand. Usually it’s no big deal, or it’s even a good thing. Only now he has to get up and go to work in the morning. 

 

_Fuck this._  Dean gets up and hauls his bag out of the small hall closet, rifles through the nonessentials he hasn’t bothered to unpack from it. Finally he just dumps it out. Something clatters loudly to the floor—his spare pocketknife probably—he doesn’t bother to lift the old T-shirt off of it to see. Sam mumbles and turns over, but doesn’t wake up, the little bitch. 

 

Dean finds what he’s looking for—an old pair of running shoes that probably saw their best days some time in the late 90s; Dean doesn’t really remember. He pulls them on, noting their basically intact condition. There’s a nasty-looking stain on the toe of the left one, the nature of which is probably best left unexamined, but the soles are still hanging on, so he calls it good and heads for the door. 

 

The night is clear, but there’s not much moonlight. It’s cold enough that Dean can see his breath in the glow of the streetlights.   It’s a fairly small town; they practically roll up the fucking sidewalks at ten every night. No sirens, no gunshots, not even a damned dog barking to break the quiet.

 

_Should have gotten a night job; I’m gonna be up anyway_. Dean runs into the dark.  



	2. Escape Velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are stuck on one place while Sam recuperates from an injury. Dean has a little trouble dealing.

The good thing about driving in Castle Rock is that Dean can actually cross the entire town in less than twenty minutes. The bad thing is that it seems a hell of a lot longer than that. Morning rush hour in a town the size of Castle Rock should be a joke, but damned if he’s not getting a full-on case of road rage here. One week of this stupid commute has made him realize just what an assload of night driving he’s done.

Monsters come out at night; apparently assholes prefer daylight.

Because— _fuck,_ he swears, as another one cuts him off—how can a town this size be so overrun with people who should never, ever be allowed behind the wheel of anything bigger than a lawn mower? Some of them shouldn’t even be trusted with that, seriously.

Dean’s talking out loud now. "Shit, slam on the brakes a mile and a half from a red light, why don’t ya, take fucking forever to start driving again…light’s _green_ already."

There’s a redneck in a pickup, gun rack in the back window. "Call that hardware, bitch? I’ll show you some fucking hardware."He flips him off. "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Jesus, can’t get anywhere, it’s a fucking conspiracy, I swear. What if it was life or death?"

He finally pulls up in front of the store, heart racing and teeth aching from grinding them so hard. The place is dark, locked up tight. _What the hell?_ Dean checks his watch, then sinks back against the seat with a groan, wipes his hand across his mouth.

He’s fifteen minutes early.

By the time Joe shows up with the key, Dean’s finished his coffee and the tension from the commute has mostly bled off. Day hasn’t even started yet and he’s already tired. Even with his now-habitual midnight run, he didn’t get to sleep until somewhere around 3 a.m.

Dean doesn’t bother getting out, just waits in the car for Joe to unlock the door, because he knows it’s going to take a while. Joe is a sixty-ish guy who seems to know cars. Trouble is, he doesn’t talk much about cars, mostly seems interested in rambling on about all the boring shit he’s going to do when he retires, which he wants to do yesterday. Dean’s ready to shoot himself if he has to hear another word about Joe’s fishing cabin up by Leadville. He can’t think of too many things that sound worse than sitting on his ass with a fishing pole in his hand every goddamned day, listening to the fucking wind in the pines or some shit. Or maybe it’s just Joe’s monotonous drone that makes Dean want to off himself; it’s hard to tell.

Joe finally gets the door open and Dean drags himself inside. Not like there’s anything urgently waiting for them to do, but at least there’ll be coffee. He walks past the fuel additive aisle and stops, looking at the long counter lining the north wall of the main room. He’d been working here about an hour when he decided he really hates that counter. It’s just wrong. It’s turned sideways to the door, and there’s a tall rack of maps that blocks the view of the storefront. He can’t really see ( _what)_ who’s coming through the door until they come around that rack. It makes him uneasy.

He can’t keep standing here looking at it, though, so he trudges to the back and gets some of Joe’s shitty coffee. There is a bell on the door so at least they can hear when it opens, and it rings just as he gets back to the front of the store. He doesn’t bother trying to see anything from behind the stupid counter, just gets up and goes around. Anything’s better than listening to Joe recite one more round of "Fifty Kinds of Fishbait and Their Uses" anyway.

Dean’s glad he went the extra few yards when he sees her. She’s an attractive redhead in a simple business suit. It’s cut just low enough Dean has to make an effort to keep his eyes on her face, but he manages not to be too obvious, he’s pretty sure. Dean smiles, asks, "Somethin’ I can help you with?"

There’s a little hitch when she sees him up close, and for a minute he wonders if she’s mentally comparing his face with an FBI poster down at the post office or something. Then she says, "Hey, Dean."

It hits him then. A couple of nights ago—the Wild Coyote Bar and Grill. She had this really short skirt and the ass to do it justice. He knows she had Jack and Coke, and he’s pretty sure she had a name, too, but damned if he can remember it. Mandy? Maria?

"Hey," he says, chuckles a little nervously. "I didn’t recognize you without your, uh…boots."

"It was casual Friday," she says, winking at him.

Dean grins. "Yeah? Got any job openings where you work? ‘Cause I gotta say, it sounds like my kinda place."

She gives a little laugh. "Well, you would improve the scenery quite a bit yourself." She glances at her watch. "Crap, I'm running late...got to get going or I'll be out of a job myself." 

He finds her the wiper blades and he’s thinking he’s come out of this one pretty clean when she pays with a credit card. He reads the name. _Robin?_ _Huh. Could have sworn it started with an "M"._ She’s on her way to the door when Dean says, "See you around, Robin."

She looks back at him over her shoulder, quirks a smile. "Robin’s my mom."

**

 

The rest of the morning’s kind of a blur. Dean stays busy, because his other coworker, Travis, is about as useless as Joe. Travis is a good-natured shit, but he’s not exactly PhD material, couldn’t find his ass with both hands if his life depended on it. He spends most of the day slumped on a stool, just sort of staring into space. Dean’s pretty sure Travis has figured out a way to full-on sleep with his eyes open. At least he’s quiet.

Actually, mornings are the easy part of the day. Dean’s always tired, and sometimes hung over, and that really helps keep the irritation dialed down. He just doesn’t have the energy. It’s usually afternoon before he’s itching to choke the living shit out of some idiot who desperately needs it. Like this one right here.

"I need to return this," the moron says.

"Again?" Dean’s smiling, of course he is, but the guy’s starting to look a little nervous anyway.

Moron laughs sheepishly. "Uh…yeah. It didn’t work."

"Really?" Dean says, stretching the word sarcastically. "Wow. You brought a ‘bad’ battery back on Monday. Two days ago it was a solenoid, and now the starter. Man, that sucks."

The guy starts to look a little trapped now, scared even, as Dean holds his hand out for the part. He gives it to Dean and then snatches his hand away like it’s hot. Dean rings up the return.

And Dean knows he’s going to regret it, but he says it anyway.

"Get you anything else today?"

"Um, actually…" he stammers, and Dean grits his teeth, holds up his hand palm out to stop him from talking.

"Never mind." Dean says grimly. "You want a starter relay."

Dean walks to the back of the storage shelves rubbing his throbbing head. It’s gonna be a long afternoon.

**

Sam’s read the last page of his book by noon, and he tosses it onto the couch beside him, rubs his eyes. It’s funny how when they’re hunting he’s always wishing they had time to slow down, rest, just hang out or read or whatever, but it never takes him long to get restless when the craziness does call a time out.

He’d like to sleep late in the mornings. It would kill some time, but Sam’s always awake by the time Dean leaves for work. It’s hard not to be. It’s not that Dean’s that noisy in the mornings—lots of moaning and groaning mostly—it’s just ingrained in him now to get up when Dean does. Move when Dean does, come and go together, stay and sit, dog coming to heel. He’s kenneled here like a dog, too, nothing to do but wait for Dean to come home.

Thinking of dogs reminds him of Kelly. He stumps to the window. Jax goes crazy barking every day at the same time, right before Kelly’s old Civic comes up the street. Not that Sam knows Kelly’s schedule or anything; that’d be a little stalkerish. It’s just that she’s the one thing that changes in his day. Kelly’s not there and then she is. On the other hand, he might be getting a little stir crazy—or maybe just crazy—watching his neighbor’s house from the window.

Maybe he’s just been spending way too much time alone. Sam doesn’t really mind being by himself, but too much solitude lets his mind wander down unpleasant paths. He starts thinking about things like destiny and demons and that’s never good.

The thought’s enough to send him out the door. He has to take the steps slow, easing down them one at a time. _Stupid crutches_. He sits down on the top step carefully and takes a deep breath of the clean-smelling air.

Castle Rock’s not a bad town. This is a peaceful neighborhood and life flows around him, buffering him from the evil he’s been swimming in for the last year and a half. Since they’ve been here Sam’s felt like the game’s been suspended, apocalypse canceled due to lack of interest. He knows so much better than to think the word "safe" even if it feels that way, but sometimes he likes to wallow in the illusion.

The sharp bark from Kelly’s back yard startles him. Jax bays and bounces, getting exponentially more excited the closer Kelly gets.

She parks and gets out smiling, walks toward Sam. It’s kind of ridiculous how he can’t stop smiling back so hard, but seriously, he’d be this glad to see anyone, the way he sits around by himself all day.

"Hey, Sam!" Kelly says. "Getting some sun?"

"Oh, you know…just killing time, waiting for my soap to start."

Kelly has the kind of sincere laugh that makes him feel good, like he’s said something way funnier than he did.

"Oh, too bad," she says. "I was going to ask you to have lunch with me. But I wouldn’t want to keep you from your show."

Sam shrugs. "Everything good happens on Friday anyway," he says, earning another one of those laughs.

"Well, come on then," Kelly says, holding out one hand to Sam like she’s going to help him up, grabbing his crutches with the other. He’s kind of staring at her, then he realizes she’s waiting for him to say something and he jerks back to reality.

"Uh, oh, no don’t…I mean, I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble."

"Oh, it’s no trouble. I picked up a bunch of takeout from the Panda. In fact, you’d really be doing me a favor. I like a little bit of everything and I always wind up with too much. And Jax…" Kelly glances toward the back yard and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "…Chinese gives him gas."

Sam chuckles. "Sounds bad."

"Oh, God. Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it. We’re talking toxic—gas masks and hazmat suits, seriously."

"Wouldn’t want that," Sam says.

"Okay then, good. Come on." Kelly hands Sam his crutches and he stands up, hopping awkwardly on his good leg. She waits until he’s steady before she starts toward her front door.

Sam follows her home.

**

Kelly’s kitchen is small and warm and smells faintly of burnt coffee. Sam feels too big, not sure what to do with his arms and legs. He doesn’t fit here. He manages to settle awkwardly into a chair at the table, leaning his crutches in the corner next to him.

He starts to relax a little, watching Kelly poke and rummage through cabinets and drawers. She’s so laid back that it takes Sam a minute to figure out why her manner strikes him as odd. It’s been a long damned time since he’s really been around a woman who’s not under a threat of some kind, who’s not a victim. She’s…unguarded.

Jax keeps up a steady baritone bark in the background, but there’s no real threat in it. Sam gets the feeling the dog doesn’t expect to be heeded; it’s just a show. Sure enough, Kelly completely ignores the noise, busies herself with setting food, plates and utensils on the table, and eventually Jax gives it up. She offers Sam a beer and he takes it, far enough past the heavy-duty painkillers that it’s not an issue. Maybe that’s why he’s suddenly hungrier than he’s been since he got hurt, because the food tastes really good. Kelly must think so, too, because it’s quiet for a few minutes. The silence isn’t awkward.

"So, Sam, what brought you to Castle Rock?" Kelly says finally.

"Oh, we’re just passing through, really. What about you? Lived here long?" Sam finishes, turning the question back on her, nothing revealed.

She smiles and _man_ , every time it hits him just as hard as the first. He tries to pay attention to her words.

"Yeah, actually. All my life."

"By yourself?" It sounds bizarre coming out of his mouth. He’s not even sure himself what he’s asking, but she answers like it makes sense to her.

"Now I do. Since my mom passed last summer."

"Oh, hey…I’m so sorry." Sam’s said that hundreds of times; encounters with relatives of the dead are a daily obstacle when they’re working. It’s a knee-jerk reaction, and he doesn’t remember ever feeling like such a dick about it before.

Kelly shakes her head. "It’s okay. I mean, I miss her, of course. I took care of her for over two years after she got sick. She left a big hole behind."

Sam grimaces sympathetically, says, "I would think so."

"I just try to be glad I got to spend as much time with her as I did. Family’s everything, you know?"

Kelly sets her fork down and just looks at him. She’s smiling a little. It’s kind of sad, nothing like the big and bright one he’s come to think of as her norm, but it settles somewhere warm in his middle anyway. They’re sitting side by side at the table, knees almost touching. Her chin is tipped up just a little so she can look him in the eye and he’s looking back. They’re staring now and it should be weird, but he really doesn’t want it to stop. He can’t help it—he reaches up and touches her face, his thumb sitting softly against the point of her chin. Her lips open slightly. He slides his thumb up her jaw and her eyes darken, staring into his, and he’s not an idiot. There’s something here.

Sam wants to do something, needs to say something, but he can’t get any words past the hot ache that settles in his chest. He drops his hand and clears his throat.

"So, um…what do you do…you know, here?" _Yeah. That was articulate._

"Go to school, mostly."

"Yeah? What are you studying?"

"It kind of depends on the day, I guess." She laughs and he grins back. "No, seriously, I got a late start, with taking time out for my mom and everything. I guess I just never really looked too far ahead. Figured why plan for the future, when you never really know what’s going to come along."

The look she’s giving him is weighted. He thinks it’s past time for him to go. He reaches for his crutches, says, "Hey, thanks for lunch. I really enjoyed it."

She grins. "Don’t thank me—you saved me from the Toxic Cloud of Doom."

"Glad I could help," Sam hauls himself to his feet.

"Oh hey—do you want a damp towel for that?"

Sam frowns. "What?"

"You have something there…" She’s already reaching for washcloth, points at a spot on his jeans.

Sam chuckles, a little embarrassed. "Oh. Um…I think that’s been there a while. Haven’t made it downtown to do the laundry in a few days."

Kelly snorts. "You’ve been going all the way to that dump downtown? You don’t need to do that, Sam. I’ve got a washer and dryer right here; you might as well use it."

"Oh, I couldn’t…"

"Sure you could." Kelly says. "I’m not washing it for you, you understand, but you’re more than welcome to use the facilities."

His first instinct is to say no again, but then something changes his mind. "Well, okay. I might take you up on that."

He knows she’s watching him from her front door as he crosses the yard, and he feels awkward as hell. There’s just no way to look anything but clumsy on a set of crutches, so he focuses on making the trip as quickly and efficiently as he can. Even though it makes him self-conscious, he likes that she’s still standing there watching when he gets to his door. He holds up a hand. She waves back.

Sam finally fumbles and hops his way inside, leans against the closed door and closes his eyes. He pounds his head back against the door.

__

I am so screwed.

**

"…it’s just…sloppy, is what it is," Dean sputters. "That idiot didn’t have the first fucking clue what the problem was, he’s lucky to figure out which hole to shove the gas nozzle in, I swear."

Sam’s giving him a bemused look as he takes another bite of pizza.

"And then…" Dean pauses to swallow and wash it down with a slug of his beer. "I go back to the shelves and hunt for ten fucking minutes for the starter relay, which I could have told him was the problem in the first place if he’d ever fucking asked me, and when I come back out, the little chickenshit’s gone!"

"He just left?" Sam asks mildly.

"Yeah. Travis said he was out the door, soon as I turned my back. Practically ran."

Sam laughs.

"Yeah, glad my pain is so entertaining for you," Dean says, disgusted. "I’m working this shitty job to feed your 10,000-calorie-a-day habit, but go ahead, laugh it up."

Sam chuckles, shakes his head. "No, it’s…I can just see it, is all. You got pissed—went all self-righteous, I’m-a-car-guy-and-you’re-not—I’ve seen the look plenty of times. Poor guy probably thought fire was gonna shoot from your eyes any second, incinerate him on the spot for his sacrilege."

Dean frowns. "Oh, so it’s my fault?"

"I didn’t say that, Dean."

Dean grunts and looks down at the table, rubs his forehead. He’s got another damned headache. "Whatever." He pushes his chair back and gets up, pulls on his jacket.

"I’m goin’ out for a while," Dean says, already on his way to the door.

Sam checks the time. "Dean it’s 10 pm. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?"

"Yeah. So?"

Sam shrugs. "Nothing. Do what you want."

"Thanks, I’ll do that," Dean says.

Sam raises his eyebrows briefly, then turns back to the TV.

"Probably be an early night anyway," Dean says.

"Uh huh," Sam says.

Dean ignores the sarcastic tone and walks out the door.

The Impala rumbles down the deserted street and Dean thinks he really wasn’t kidding about being in early. He’s seen what passes for nightlife here and knows it’s not likely to amount to much, especially on a weeknight. Besides, he’s not all that crazy about leaving Sam by himself for too long at night. Sam can probably handle most supernatural stuff on his own, even with the bad leg, but still. Things have been quiet on the freaky vision front since they’ve been here, but there’s no telling how long that’ll last.

Sam’s spending too much time alone, not that he seems to mind. Dean decides he’ll make him get out of the house tomorrow whether he likes it or not. Hell, he might be going into some sad emo decline or something, for all Dean knows. How would he tell the difference?

Dean pulls into the parking lot and he can pretty much take his pick of spaces. The Wild Coyote is pretty far from wild tonight. That’s fine with Dean. He’s not here to make a big night of it, just needs to smooth out the rough spots a little. Dean slides onto a stool and orders a beer. He keeps his eyes on whatever ball game is on the TV over the bar, but he’s not really following it, doesn’t really follow pro sports at all. The game’s just not that interesting when you don’t care who wins. It’s trivial. Life or death—that’s the only outcome that matters.

Dean’s killed an hour and made it through three beers when he decides this is nothing he couldn’t be doing back at the house. He thinks about taking a bottle back with him, for next time. Seems likely there’ll be a next time, if the last couple of weeks are anything to go by. Besides, considering the amount he has to drink to get any sleep, it’s probably better if he doesn’t do a lot of driving.

Dean makes a stop at an all-night grocery on the way back to the house. He knows there’s not much food there and it’s not like Sam can go out and get himself some during the day. Dean grabs what he thinks will be easiest for Sam to deal with—bread, cereal, cold cuts, peanut butter. They’re out of milk again, too. Stuff’s supposed to be good for your bones; Dean’s got a definite interest in keeping that stocked. The quicker Sam heals up, the quicker they’re out of here.

Dean pays, walks through the automatic door and a movement catches his eye, next to his car. It’s just a guy getting out of his pickup, except… _no, no, no…_ he’s swinging the door open too hard… _shit, the fuckin’ door panel…_ and Dean breaks into a trot.

He’s almost to the front of the car when he hears it: dull thunk of metal on metal. It stops him dead in his tracks and for a second he doesn’t move; then he sets the grocery bag gently on the curb. Dean can see the ding in the Impala’s door, shining in the parking lot floodlights. It’s just a dimple really, nothing he can’t fix, and that fact might help him get past this later on. But right now? It doesn’t count for shit.

Pickup Guy steps out, glances at the mark and slams his door shut. He’s looking at the ground as he starts toward the building and he nearly runs into Dean, who’s blocking the passage between the two vehicles with his body.

"You hit my car," Dean growls.

The guy flinches back. "Oh, hey, man, I’m sorry it’s…look I’ve got insurance…" he stammers, reaching for his back pocket.

Dean doesn’t even form conscious thought to do it, just jabs with his right, makes solid contact with the guy’s nose. His head snaps back and he staggers against the truck.

Dean steps forward, swings his elbow up and across the guy’s chest. He means to pin him there, set him straight and let him off with a warning, but the guy gets a wild look in his eyes, shifts his weight and throws Dean to the side. Dean staggers and smacks his head on the pickup’s side mirror; the impact opens a cut above his eye.

The pain pisses him off. Blood’s dripping into his eye. Dean straightens up and jams the point of his elbow behind him and into the guy’s solar plexus. He doubles over. Dean yanks him back up by the collar of his jacket and punches him again. His head rocks back, thunks against the truck window.

Dean’s knee to the gut brings him to the ground, down for the count. Dean stands there panting for a second, then pushes the guy over onto his back with the toe of his boot. He’s breathing and conscious, more or less.

Dean squats next to him, grates out, "Don’t. Touch. My car."

Dean stands up. He can see the cashier inside the store. She’s talking on a cell phone, visibly agitated.

Time to call it a night.  



	3. Escape Velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are stuck on one place while Sam recuperates from an injury. Dean has a little trouble dealing.

Dean rolls onto his back and sets his arm across his face, winces when his forearm makes contact with the cut over his eye. There’s a high-pitched noise pulsing somewhere—sounds like somebody killing a rat. Dean wishes they’d hurry up and waste the little fucker, ‘cause it feels like he’s got an ice pick embedded in his left eye socket and it’s throbbing in time with the noise. Then he realizes. It’s his phone.  _Fucking alarm._  

 

Dean shuts it off and stumbles to the bathroom, looks at the split eyebrow in the mirror. It’s not too bad—annoying more than anything, because he’ll be explaining it all damned day. He steps into the shower, lets the water gradually pull him to consciousness, trying to remember exactly what went on the night before. 

 

He remembers the Wild Coyote, but he’s pretty sure he didn’t drink enough there to account for the hammering behind his eyes. Then it clicks. He figures it’s about fifty-fifty: half from violent acquaintance of his face with the rearview of the pickup truck, and the other half from the pint of Jack he took on after he got back to the house.

 

Water won’t fix either insult, so Dean gets out of the shower, dresses and plods to the kitchen. Sam’s sitting at the table with the laptop open. Dean thinks it must be nice not to have anywhere to be. He pulls a can of Coke out of the fridge. Bought it last night, routine precaution to get a six-pack of Coke for every fifth of Jack. Good for hangover. He chugs the Coke, belches loudly. Sam makes a face. Dean notes the reaction, but foregoes comment.

 

“Should I even ask?” Sam says after a minute, nodding at the cut on Dean’s face. 

 

“No,” Dean answers shortly. He knows it doesn’t matter what he says. Sam’s going to ask.

 

“Dean, you really think it’s a good idea to be picking fights in this town? We’re going to be here for a while…”

 

The words hit Dean like needles on his skin. He’s pissed in a heartbeat, and he’s suddenly really glad he has somewhere else to go. 

 

“Gonna be late,” Dean says, crushing the empty can and tossing it at the trash bin. He turns his back on Sam. He hears Sam get up, but he keeps walking. 

 

Dean’s got his hand on the Impala’s door handle when Sam starts down the steps. Dean’s leaving; he’s too tired for this bullshit. Then he sees Sam’s face. He’s registered the damage to the car. Dean leans an elbow against the doorframe and huffs out a breath between his lips, looks at the ground.  _Here we go._

 

“What happened, Dean?” 

 

“Nothin’ to worry about, Sam. I took care of it.”

 

And there it is—Sam’s patented pissy, judgmental, _disappointed_ look. Dean always reacts to it one of two ways—fight or flight—and Sam can’t fight back today. Door number two seems like the way to go.

 

“You took care of it.” Sam nods. “And by that, you mean…?”

 

“Seriously, Sam. We can talk about this later,” Dean says, meaning “never.” Dean swings into the driver’s seat and shuts his door just as Sam opens the opposite one. 

 

Sam leans down awkwardly and says, “Dean…”

 

Dean puts the Impala into gear and shoots Sam a warning look.   Sam clenches his jaw, but he gives it up. He shifts his weight back from the car until he’s balanced on his crutches at the edge of the curb, shuts the car door. 

 

Dean knows Sam’s watching him go. He knows, too, that he’s being an ass. He doesn’t look back.

 

**

 

Sam watches the Impala until it turns at the end of the block. It’s really not all that hard for him to decipher his brother—Sam’s been capable of putting two and two together for quite a while now. Dent in the car door, plus a ding in Dean’s face? Probably equals hospitalization for whoever pissed him off.

 

Sam sighs and hobbles back to the house. Nothing they can do about it now. Whatever happened, it doesn’t look like the shit’s going to land at their feet. If the esteemed authorities of Castle Rock were planning on paying them a visit, they’d be here by now. 

 

And Sam knows he ought to be appreciating that, the quiet. They may be sitting in the eye of the hurricane, but they’re going to get sucked back into the shit storm sooner or later. Still, at this point even trouble might be a welcome distraction. He’s got nothing to do and no place to go, and even if he did have, he has no way to get there. 

 

Sam goes inside and collapses in front of the television. Same old stupid daytime crap. They’ve got internet, but he doesn’t use it that much. Dean picks on him about surfing porn, and sure, he’s done some of that. He’s bored and spending a lot of time alone, and he’s a healthy, normal guy, so whatever. It does make him kind of uncomfortable when he thinks about how often he’s had his hand on himself lately. 

 

He’s spending way too much time thinking about Kelly, too. She’s not part of his life and never will be. There’s no room for her in the future that’s coming for him. He needs to take a step back from this, and he’s going to. He is. 

 

But first he needs to do laundry.

 

**

 

_Crutches suck_ , Sam thinks, as he swings the full duffle over his shoulder by one ragged strap. It’s not really made to be carried like this; or rather, it is, but it works a lot better if you have two good legs and at least one free arm. He shifts it and checks the balance, trying to get the heavy bag to settle between his shoulder blades instead of flopping against the back of his arm. Then he wobbles around on his working leg for a good minute, trying to get the crutches situated under him. He’s a little out of breath already, out of shape from sitting around all the time. Probably why his balance is for shit, too.  

 

He finally gets out the front door, listing to the left to compensate for the extra weight on the other side. Going down the steps isn’t too bad, but by the time he gets to Kelly’s front porch, he’s winded and muttering under his breath. He stops at the end of her walk and slips the duffle off his shoulder, braces himself and gives it a heave up onto the porch. It hits the metal storm door’s kick panel, just as the inner door opens.

 

“Fuck!” Kelly swears, Jax barking madly beside her. 

 

“Oh God, I’m sorry…” Sam starts apologizing, but she’s cute as hell, all shocked and cursing like that, and he’s laughing as he stumps up the steps. 

 

Kelly’s out the door by the time he gets there, peering down at the duffle. She pulls the bag upright, then wrinkles her nose. 

 

“So is it wash day, or is this… _phew_ …first strike in some sort of biological warfare you’ve decided to wage against my house?”

 

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Sam laughs. 

 

“It’s a scientific fact, Sam: boys stink,” Kelly replies. 

 

Sam leans over and snags the strap of the duffle, makes a face. “I guess you’re right; it is pretty rank. Thought I might do something about it.”

 

“Better get it in here, then. Or do you think it can walk in by itself?” 

 

“Give it a day or two,” Sam says. It’s all both of them can do to deal with the door, restrain the dog, and drag the bag inside. Kelly wrestles Jax into the back yard, then leads Sam to a small utility area off the kitchen. There’s not much room to move around in it, but he’s just grateful it’s not in a basement or something. 

 

“Here you go,” she says, waving a hand at the machines.

 

“Thanks, Kelly,” Sam says, “I really appreciate this.”

 

“No problem.   We’ve all got to do our part to clean up the environment,” she says, smiling. 

 

Sam grins back and starts pulling clothes out of the bag. They do stink, but it’s just the odor of old sweat and too much wear—no blood or ectoplasm or swamp ooze. There’s nothing he has to worry about explaining. He loads the washer and starts it, and Kelly doesn’t offer to help, just watches and waits for him to finish. Sam likes the way she can just be quiet, doesn’t talk unless she has something to say. He hasn’t shared a comfortable silence with a woman since…well, not for a while.

 

“So, did you always have such a low opinion of us males, or is it just my laundry that turned you off?” Sam asks wryly, turning back to Kelly and leaning against the machine.

 

Kelly chuckles. “No, I had a brother. Or rather, I still have a brother. I just don’t see him much.”

 

“You guys don’t get along?”

 

Kelly shrugs. “We get along okay, I guess. I think he feels guilty for leaving me to take care of Mom.”

 

“Guilt does funny things to people.”

 

“Yeah. So what about you and your brother? You two must be pretty close, living together and all.”

 

 “We are, I guess. We’re all that’s left since…” Sam’s throat tightens, and he has to stop to clear it. “…our dad passed away a few months ago.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Kelly says, leaning forward and putting her hand on his arm. 

 

Sam looks down at where she’s touching him, feels her hand small and warm through the sleeve of his shirt. She leaves it there a little too long, then moves it slowly up to curve over his shoulder. He just met her, they’re strangers, and it’s so stupid, he knows it, but he knows he wants this. Wants _her_. 

 

He raises his eyes to her face and she’s right there, steady green gaze on him, deep enough to get lost in. He reaches for her, pulls her closer with a hand on her neck and kisses her, twining his fingers in her hair. It’s so good, wet heat of her mouth opening under his, slide of tongue so sweet and soft. It’s like a dive into warm, deep water; he can’t hear, can’t even breathe.

 

It’s been too long, the sensation’s overwhelming and he groans low in his throat. Kelly lays her hands on his chest and Sam’s sure she can feel his heart pounding under her fingers. She feels so damned good, pressing close and breath quickening, and he wraps one arm around her shoulders, reaches the other down to cup her ass, perfect round filling his palm.  _God,_ it feels so good, he wants this, he does, but there’s something _wrong_ …something’s off, he can’t quite put his finger on it. 

 

Then it hits him like a kick in the gut—she’s nothing like Jessica. She’s not her. Sam jerks back. 

 

She looks up at him, out of breath, eyes wide and dark. “What? You look…are you okay?”

 

Sam rubs a shaky hand across the back of his neck and takes a deep breath, lets it out. “Uh, yeah…sorry. Just got a little lightheaded there for a minute…”

 

Kelly frowns, then quirks a little smile. “I’d take that as a compliment if you didn’t look so shitty. You need to sit down?”

 

“No, no, just…” He huffs a small laugh. “Sorry. God, you must think I’m…” he stops, shakes his head.

 

“What I think is that you’ve been standing there too long for somebody who’s just had surgery,” Kelly says sympathetically. “Come sit down. I promise the washer keeps working even if we don’t stand here holding it up.” 

 

“No,” Sam says, shaking his head. He can’t keep doing this. She wouldn’t want him to. 

 

“No,” he says again, more decisively. Kelly cocks her head, looks mildly confused. “I’d have to let you go to do that,” Sam says low, and her eyes darken. He starts trailing kisses down her neck between words. “…and I…don’t…want to,” making her gasp and shudder. 

 

It’s good; it’s exactly what he wants. He moves back to her mouth, and she just opens for him, soft and warm and welcoming. It feels like coming home, and oh _fuck_ , he forgot…he’d forgotten this feeling, and the thought makes his eyes sting. 

 

Sam pulls back just to take a breath then, hand on Kelly’s face, thumb rubbing gently against her cheek. She slides her hands around his neck, inside the collar of his shirt. He shivers and Kelly smiles at him. She stretches up to him and he wants to…he just _wants._

 

Suddenly there’s a loud _whump, whump, whump_ behind them and Sam jumps forward, landing on his bad foot. He stumbles just as Kelly jerks her head up, straight into his lower lip. 

 

“Ow, shit!” Sam swears.

 

Kelly gasps and grabs her head. “Ow. Oh, damn, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” She reaches quickly behind him and shuts off the unbalanced washing machine.

 

Sam’s got a hand braced against the opposite wall and his foot aches and his lip stings. He looks at her for a second, then cracks up, and Kelly starts giggling, too. It’s really not that funny, but they laugh until they’re out of breath. When the fit finally passes, Sam feels loose and relaxed, like he’s slipped out of a too-tight shirt—at ease. Something else he’d forgotten how to feel.

 

Kelly puts a hand on his cheek and peers at his lip, trying to see, and Sam licks at the swelling bump, tastes blood. 

 

“Are you bleeding? Geez, Sam, let me get you some ice.” 

 

It strikes him as odd. He’s not used to being fussed over, especially for something so minor. “No, I’m good, really. It’s nothing.” 

 

Kelly smiles wryly, regards him with her head cocked to one side. “Tough guy, huh?” She pauses. “Okay, well at least go sit down while I get this machine sorted out. It’s old and temperamental.”

 

He goes and sits at the kitchen table, but it’s only about five yards away and he can see her working. She rearranges the jeans in the washer drum with a kind of delicate strength. She’s obviously done this hundreds of times; it fairly screams “normal.” Sam can’t figure out why something so mundane is making his chest feel so tight. 

 

Kelly sits down with him when she’s done, and they talk while the laundry finishes. She asks Sam how he hurt his ankle and he tells her the truth, minus the wendigo. The sun creeps lower, rays slanting into the window, and their voices grow quiet and slow, winding down with the day. Sam asks her about her classes and she tells him a funny story about her history professor. The talk turns to books, and Sam laughs when he finds out her favorite author is Stephen King. Then she spends twenty minutes explaining why. 

 

She almost has him convinced that ol’ Steve is worth a read when he notices the fading daylight, realizes he hasn’t heard the clothes dryer running for quite a while. He stretches, feels like he’s waking up from a dream. It kind of hurts him to say it.

 

“Wow, it’s getting late,” Sam says, with a smile. “Didn’t mean to take up your whole afternoon. You probably have things to do.”

 

“Nothing that can’t wait,” she smiles back.

 

They get up from the table and Kelly helps Sam shove the clean clothes into his duffle. He doesn’t bother to be neat about it, knowing they’ll be messed up when he gets back to the house again anyway. 

 

Kelly walks him to the door. Sam hoists the bag over his shoulder and Kelly steps close. He thinks it’s a good thing he’s got to keep both hands on his crutches. If he starts touching her again, it’s going to be way too hard to leave. It’s bad enough when she wraps her fingers in the lapels of his shirt, stretches up and kisses him softly. Her hand lingers on his chest when she moves back, and the spot feels cold when she takes it away. 

 

Sam wrestles his burden back to the house. As he goes, he thinks that there won’t—can’t—be a next time for this, for anything like this afternoon, but a smile keeps trying to creep onto his face anyway. A line from some old movie keeps running through his mind. It’s cheesy, and he doesn’t think it’s even true, but he can’t shake it.

 

_Today—today is my best day._

 

**

Sam’s sitting in the old sprung armchair, barely having caught his breath from the slog across the yard, when Dean gets in from work. He looks like hell, pale enough the stubble stands out dark on his jaw. Sam says, “Hey,” and gets a grunt in return. Dean collapses onto the couch, which protests the rough treatment with an irritable creak. Dean takes about sixty seconds to start snoring. 

 

Sam picks up Kelly’s copy of The Stand—the original version, not the unabridged, she’s careful to explain, though Sam’s not entirely sure why that’s important. It’s not really his thing; he just took it to make Kelly happy. Sam read Salem’s Lot when he was a kid, back when he still thought vampires were imaginary, and it didn’t impress him much. He flips pages, skimming through the first few chapters, and words start to jump out at him…”’65 Chevy”…”Jess”…”dark man.” A chill runs down his spine and he drops the book like it’s hot. He’s got enough nightmares of his own. No way he’s reading that shit.

 

Sam heaves himself to his feet and lets himself out the front door as quietly as he can. He doesn’t want to wake Dean just yet; he wants to check something. Sam lowers himself off the curb carefully and makes a circuit of the Impala, looking for damage other than the dent he’s already seen. He doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Something glints from the floor inside, and he opens the door to look. He bats a couple of fast food wrappers out of the way, sees a nearly empty whiskey bottle poking out from under the seat. He knows Dean keeps an emergency supply. Looks like it’s going to need replenishing soon. Sam shoves it back out of sight. The last thing they need right now is Dean getting picked up for an open container. 

 

Sam heads back to the house no wiser for the trip. Whatever the mishap was, it doesn’t seem like they’re looking at any blowback. He figures Dean will tell him what happened when he’s ready. 

 

The door slips out of Sam’s hand as he comes inside, banging loud enough that Dean rouses. Dean rubs his eyes one-handed, wipes the hand down across his face. 

 

“Morning, sunshine,” Sam says, flopping down on the couch.

 

“Yeah, well some of us have to work for a living.”

 

It’s not the work that’s making Dean look so hard-used, Sam thinks, but he doesn’t say it aloud. He figures his face must put the idea across well enough, the way Dean avoids looking at him. 

 

The quiet’s starting to hang a little heavy, so Sam says, “You hungry? I think there’s some ham left…”

 

Dean shakes his head. He sits forward, then perks up a little. “Screw that. I got paid today.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Dean smiles wryly. “Yeah. And for the bullshit I put up with to get that money? Dude, I deserve a steak.” Dean stands up and his grin widens. “If you’re real nice, I might buy you one, too. Let me clean up a little and…damn.” Dean frowns.

 

“What?”

 

“This was my last clean shirt,” Dean says, shrugging his right shoulder up to sniff at his armpit, wrinkling his nose. “Sort of,” he adds.

 

Sam huffs a laugh, shakes his head. “Check the bag,” he says, nodding at the duffle on the floor next to the couch.

 

Dean cautiously pulls the top of the bag open with one hand, like he’s expecting something to jump out. Apparently deciding it’s safe, he sticks a hand in and pulls out a wrinkled T-shirt.

 

“You did laundry?” Dean asks. “Haven’t seen any public transportation around here. How’d you get downtown?”

 

“I didn’t. I went next door.”

 

Dean gives Sam a look like he’s speaking a foreign language, then his look turns appraising. “Next door? I gotta say, Sammy, that’s impressive.”

 

Sam tilts his head in confusion. “Well, the crutches are kind of a pain, but it wasn’t that big of a deal…”

 

“No, I mean, you’ve known this girl a week and you’ve already got her doing your laundry?”

 

Sam’s look is incredulous. “She didn’t do it; I did.”

 

Dean smirks. 

 

“I just used her machine, Dean.”

 

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it nowadays?” Dean says, as he grabs a pair of jeans out of the duffle. 

 

Sam rolls his eyes, but Dean’s already halfway to the shower with his clean clothes.

 

**

 

They wind up at a place called the Wild Coyote Bar and Grill. It’s not particularly wild as far as Sam can see, but the food is a lot better than good. Dean’s busy working over a rare ribeye, making orgasmic noises as he chews. Sam would probably be mildly embarrassed if he weren’t too occupied with decimating his own porterhouse to care. It’s the best thing he’s eaten since he got hurt and he is enjoying it, but he tries not to watch Dean eat steak regardless. It’s disgusting, all that bloody juice running all over the plate. Sam’s likes his steak cooked, medium at least. He sees enough carnage on the job; he’d rather avoid it at the dinner table. 

 

When they’re done, they drink a couple of beers. It’s not that late, but Sam’s so relaxed he’s bordering on drowsy. Apparently Dean’s nap gave him a second wind, though, because he’s fidgeting, tapping his beer bottle with his ring, jiggling his knee under the table. It’s a peculiar shuddering kind of tension, like an engine revved to the point of overload. It makes Sam a little uneasy.

 

After a while Dean says, “So, girl next door, huh?”

 

“Dean, come on. It’s not a big deal. She let me use the washer and dryer. End of story,” Sam says irritably, but he’s not looking at Dean. He knows his brother’s a lot more perceptive than he wants people to think and Sam doesn’t have the energy for the third degree. He’s not even sure he has the answers for it. 

 

“Doesn’t have to be,” Dean says.

 

“What?” Sam asks, confused.

 

“The end of the story. Come on, keep up,” Dean says, taking another swallow of beer. “I’d totally hit that.”

 

“Nice, Dean.” 

 

“I’m just sayin’. She’s a good-looking girl and she obviously likes you, or she wouldn’t have let you in her…house,” Dean says, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

 

Sam sighs. “Dean, we’ve had this conversation. Several times. Just stay out of my sex life.”

 

Dean’s looking at him oddly and Sam can’t figure out what his expression is supposed to mean. It seems a little too intense for the conversation Sam thought they were having, and he feels like there’s something he’s not getting.

 

“Are you pissed at me?” Sam asks finally.

 

Dean gives a guilty little start then. It’s subtle, but Sam sees. “No. Why would I be?” Dean shifts in his chair. He nods his head at the pool tables in the back. “Come on gimp. Don’t wanna get rusty.”

 

One of the tables is in use, but there are four altogether. The place must do a pretty good business on the weekends. They play for a while, falling into an easy rhythm that goes back further than Sam can remember. Even when Dean was a sullen teenager—or when Sam followed in his footsteps a few years later—green felt was neutral territory. Quiet concentration, balls clacking together, then dropping and rumbling down the return chute—it’s familiar and soothing. Sam’s glad they came.

 

A couple of games later they call a break. Dean’s drinking two beers for every one Sam does and Dean’s still up three games to one, but Sam figures he can blame a lot on his one-legged stance. Dean gets up to get more beer and Sam heads to the restroom. He’s in there a little while. He’s mostly mastered the whole pissing-with-crutches thing, but washing up still takes longer than normal. 

 

When Sam gets back, something’s changed. There’s tension in the atmosphere that wasn’t there when he left and he scans the bar, looking for the threat. Dean’s back at the table; evidently he started without Sam for some reason. Dean’s lining up a complicated bank shot and for a minute Sam thinks Dean is just serious about not getting rusty, wants to practice his game. Then he sees her. 

 

There’s a woman sitting in the corner of the room, on the other side of the other occupied table. She’s ostensibly watching the two guys play, but mostly she’s eyeing Dean. Dean’s obviously picked up on it—that’s what brought on the showboating. Sam checks the two men, and sure enough, the bigger one is shooting irritated glances at Dean, flush beginning to creep up his beefy neck. Sam swallows past a hard lump of anger that rises in his throat. This isn’t the kind of place where they mop up the blood at closing every night, where fights are part of the entertainment. It’s the kind of place where they call the cops at the first sign of trouble.  _Damn it, Dean, what are you thinking?_

 

Sam moves a little closer, trying to see if there’s anything he can do to defuse the situation, when he hears the guy mutter something. Sam can’t make it out, but the set of Dean’s body changes and an ugly, humorless smirk crosses his face. Sam doesn’t like the way Dean’s looking, not at all. 

 

Dean leans over the table again, executes a tricky two-rail reverse shot, and the woman lets out an incredulous little laugh. The guy’s standing between their table and his, back to back with Dean about three feet away. He says something—the word “fag” is all Sam catches—but it’s more than enough. Sam sees it coming, but there’s nothing he can do to stop it. Dean turns and slams a roundhouse right into the guy’s jaw, all his weight swinging around with it, and the guy lands heavily on the pool table with a loud grunt. He draws his legs up and rolls off the other side of the table, pretty quick for such a big guy. 

 

Sam checks the guy’s friend. He doesn’t look particularly threatening, probably younger than Sam and not nearly as big, but he’s moving closer. Sam gives him a warning look as he eases his right crutch out from under his shoulder, grips it so he can use it as a weapon if he needs to, but the guy stands down. Sam turns his attention back to Dean. 

 

Before Sam can do anything, the bigger guy jabs at Dean and Dean dodges, taking a slight clip on the chin, not solid enough to faze him. Dean retaliates with a right fake and left to the face and the guy’s head snaps back and he staggers against the table.

 

“Dean!” Sam says sharply. 

 

The woman stands up at the same time, says tentatively, “Jack, don’t…”

 

“Shut up, bitch,” Jack snaps, and Sam frowns at him, then turns his attention back to Dean, who still hasn’t looked at Sam, all his attention on the man in front of him.

 

“Dean, come on, you’ve made your point,” Sam says more quietly, and moves close enough to put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean turns then and the look in his eyes shocks Sam. It’s savagely cold, and for a split second Sam thinks Dean’s going to hit him. Then the jerk speaks and the moment’s gone.

 

“Better listen to your faggot buddy, Dean,” Jack says, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. 

 

Sam turns a hard look on Jack, says, “You want to shut up now, or I’ll let him finish the job.” 

 

They all stare threateningly for a few seconds, then Sam catches movement out of the corner of his eye. The bartender is on the phone. 

 

“Time to go,” Sam says, giving Dean’s shirt a tug in the direction of the door. Apparently Jack isn’t any more anxious to wait for the cops to show up than they are, because he backs up. It’s enough that Sam feels Dean relax a little next to him. Sam starts for the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows Dean’s following. 

 

When they get to the Impala, Sam doesn’t go around to his side. He blocks Dean’s door with his body instead. 

 

“You want to tell me what the hell that was about, Dean?”

 

“Get in the car, Sam.”

 

“No.”

 

Dean clenches his jaw. “Do you really want to do this in the fucking parking lot? ‘Cause I’m pretty sure the cops are on their way.”

 

Sam stands there a little longer, then clomps angrily to the passenger door. It takes him a minute or two to stow the crutches and get inside. Sam waits for Dean to pull onto the street before he speaks again.

 

“Man, I don’t get you.”

 

Dean doesn’t look at him, but Sam can see his knuckles grip the wheel a little harder in the glow from the dash lights. He tries again.

 

“We need to keep our heads down. Don’t you get that? God, Dean, it’s the fucking FBI!”

 

Dean gives him a sidelong glance, takes in a breath and lets it out.

 

“If you weren’t hurt already, I’d kick _your_ ass,” Dean says, through gritted teeth. “Stop. Talking.”

 

Sam’s already said everything he had to say anyway. He folds his arms and does what he’s told.  



	4. Escape Velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are stuck on one place while Sam recuperates from an injury. Dean has a little trouble dealing.

Sam blinks, hand held up to deflect the sharp ray of sunlight. He raises his arms and stretches. It’s not the worst bed he’s ever had, by far, but having the cast on his foot makes moving around at night awkward, and his back gets kind of stiff. He can’t wait to get the damned thing off tomorrow. It itches like crazy and it’s starting to stink.   
  
Sam rolls to the edge of the bed and sits up, rubbing his eyes with both hands. His phone beeps. It’s a text message from Kelly.  _Hey. On my way to my last final…wish me luck!_ Sam smiles. Thinking about exams brings back a lot of memories, and some of them are even good. He hasn’t seen Kelly since the day he did laundry, but they’ve talked on the phone a few times. The thought makes him frown. Even phone calls are a bad idea at this point, a risky indulgence, like a sweet taste on his tongue. It just leaves him wanting more of something he can’t have.

  
Sam pulls his crutches over and heaves himself up onto them. He’s gotten a lot better at it over the last few weeks, but this is still the most awkward trek he makes every day—first trip to the bathroom, barely awake and wobbly in the knees. He clumps around the corner and sees Dean’s bed hasn’t been slept in. It’s not the first time Dean’s been out all night. Hell, it’s not even the first time this week. If he does make it in, it’s pretty consistently around one or two in the morning; the only variation is how much he’s had to drink. Dean doesn’t talk about where he’s been and Sam doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to disturb the uneasy truce they’ve established in the week since the little dust-up at the Wild Coyote. Actually, it’s less like a truce and more like a non-negotiated ceasefire because they haven’t spoken about it again. 

 

Sam finishes his business in the bathroom and hobbles over to dig his phone out of his jeans pocket, checks the time.  _Shit._  He thumbs Dean’s number. It rings until the voicemail picks up and Sam flips it shut irritably. Then he dials again. And again. Finally he hears Dean’s desiccated croak in his ear.

 

“What?” 

 

“Dude. It’s 7:30 a.m.”

 

“Mm. So?”

 

“You’re supposed to be at work in half an hour, Dean.”

 

“Work. Fuck.” Dean groans loudly. Sam pictures Dean sitting up, his head not appreciating the motion.

 

“Where are you?” 

 

“Car.” Dean rasps, then adds, “Somewhere.”

 

Sam sighs. “Great.” 

 

Dean takes a breath and coughs, clears his throat, spits audibly. Sam holds the phone out at arm’s length, grimacing in distaste. He brings it back to his ear.

 

“Call ‘em and tell ‘em I’m sick, Sammy.”

 

“Dean…” Sam blinks hard, lets a breath out through his nose. “No. Look, I haven’t said anything about all the drinking, figured you’re a big boy. But I’m not enabling this shit. Call them yourself.” Before Sam hangs up, he hears Dean’s huff.

 

“Thanks, bro.”

 

**

 

Dean closes his eyes and tosses the phone down, sinks back against the Impala’s seat. His stomach gives a vicious warning roll and he obediently stops moving until it backs off.  _Bitch of a hangover._ He opens his eyes and a flash of sunlight bounces off the Impala’s hood and lances through his brain, makes him grab his head in both hands. And okay, maybe he’s the bitch here, because he’s totally down for the count until this damned headache lets him up off the mat.

 

There’s a hard knot in his stomach, too, but it’s been there a while—months at least. Alcohol’s not the cause; it’s just the temporary fix. Too bad he can’t empty his guts and get rid of it, spill it onto the pavement like the waste it is and drive away, leave it behind. If he could puke up this particular poison, he’d have done it long ago. 

 

He vomits anyway. The spasm comes over him in hard, unforgiving waves that hurt like a bitch and leave no relief in their wake. He leans over the gutter trying to catch his breath, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the open door. He tries not to look at the mess, but what he does see makes him think it might be tinged with blood. He turns away and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. When he’s pretty sure he’s done puking, he gets back in and shuts his door, takes a look around. He doesn’t recognize the street, has no clue where he is and even less idea how he got there, but he knows one thing. He needs coffee.

 

Dean starts the car and turns at the first intersection, figures left is as good a direction as any. He pulls into a little diner. They’re busy, so they probably have decent coffee, not that the quality matters at this point. He goes inside and uses the facilities, washes up a little. He still stinks, but he’s pretty sure the olfactory evidence of a bad night is nothing new in a place like this. When he comes out, the breakfast crowd is still there, but he finds a spot at the end of the counter. The waitress doesn’t even ask, just raises her eyebrows at the pot in her hand. She has a cup filled in front of him before he’s done nodding. 

 

He drinks the coffee fast, ignoring the way it burns his throat and using force of will to control his stomach’s threat to send it back. Dean turns his back to the wall, checks the other customers for anything unusual, force of habit to classify the bodies in the room—either predator or potential prey. 

 

He sees zombies. The same bland, glassy-eyed look is on every face and it’s no fucking wonder. Dean has figured it out, this life, this “normal” thing. These people, doing the same thing every day, in the same stupid little town—they’re not alive. They’re all just going through the motions until they finally die for real.  _Christ, they’re like a bunch of sheep; no wonder the wolves are picking ‘em off._

 

Dean throws some cash on the counter and stalks out. He can feel their dead eyes on him as he leaves, but they don’t see him, won’t remember him. He doesn’t raise a ripple in their stagnant little pond. At least Sam will be out of the cast before long, so they can get the hell out of Dodge. Can’t be soon enough.

 

It’s still too damned bright outside, but the coffee has improved his headache a little. Dean checks his watch—eight-thirty. He’s a half-hour late already. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. A list of excuses scrolls through his mind, until he finally says to hell with it. He’s not going back to work. 

 

Inventing new and exciting ways to fuck up is a full time job anyway. 

 

**

 

Sam’s lounging on the couch with his bad foot propped on the chair beside him, staring into space. He’s always been pretty good at keeping his mind occupied, but it’s getting to be an uphill job. He even got desperate enough to read _The Stand_ , spent most of the morning finishing it. It was a little better than doing nothing, but all the post-apocalyptic imagery hasn’t done much for his mood. 

 

Or maybe he’s just been watching too much daytime TV. It’s mostly half-baked talk show hosts, news and courtroom shows, but the soaps are the worst. He can’t really stay interested long enough to follow what’s going on, but at least one has a storyline involving a Friday the 13th-style psycho killer, and he flipped past another yesterday where some girl was having sex with her half-brother. Sam shakes his head.  _Where do they come up with this shit?_  It would depress anybody. 

 

Sam’s trying to decide if a nap would interfere too much with his sleep that night when Dean walks in. Sam frowns.

 

“You’re home early.”

 

“No shit.”

 

Sam moves his foot off the chair a half second before Dean drops into it. Dean leans back and closes his eyes. Sam watches him. He looks like hell and he doesn’t smell that great, either. Probably didn’t go to work today. Sam’s thinking about asking when his phone rings. He looks at the screen before he answers. 

 

“Kelly, hey,” Sam says.

 

Dean’s lip curls in a smirk. 

 

 “That’s good. Bet you’re glad finals are over.” He pauses. “Well yeah, you should celebrate. Dinner? Oh, no, I…”

 

Dean’s eyes pop open and he starts making shooing motions, mouthing, “Go,” at Sam. If Sam was more mobile he’d go in the other room to take the call, Dean’s so distracting. 

 

“What? Sorry, Kelly, can you hold on a minute?” Sam puts her on hold. “Dean, knock it off.”

 

“She’s hot, man! What’s the matter with you? Why are you bein’ such a pussy?”

 

“What’s the point? My foot’s better, the cast is coming off tomorrow and you know you’re not going to want to stay here a minute longer than we have to.” 

 

“All the more reason. Give her something to remember you by, dude.”

 

“Right. ‘Jobless, penniless, busted-up guy’—that’s something to remember.”

 

Dean pulls his wallet out of his pocket and pulls out some cash, tosses it at Sam. Sam doesn’t pick it up. 

 

“It’s just dinner, Sam. Although I still think you got a shot with this one…” Dean says, shaking his head. 

 

Sam thinks about it and he decides Dean’s right, in a way. Not about “taking his shot” or whatever, but he does owe Kelly something in the way of goodbye, if nothing else. She’s been a friend and that doesn’t happen to him often. Or ever, really. 

 

“Kelly? Listen, let me buy you dinner…you’ll have to drive…”

 

**

 

The last of the day’s light is coating the horizon with bloody red when Dean hits the I-25 on-ramp. He smiles. Just watching Sam try to fold his lanky ass into that damned Civic was worth the money, and besides, it gets him out of the way. Dean needs to bring home the bacon tonight. He gave Sam his last c-note.

 

It’s not a problem, just a little inconvenient. He figures he’s worn out his welcome in Castle Rock and that means he has to make a trip to Denver. Although now that he thinks about it, an hour of highway driving isn’t a bad thing. He pats the Impala’s dashboard and chuckles. 

 

“It’s been a while, huh, baby?” He opens her up, feels the tension spooling out of him with the miles.

 

Dean makes the outskirts of Denver pretty early for the night crowd, but he’s hungry anyway and that kills some time. He goes into a couple of places before he finds a bar with everything he’s looking for—a little rough around the edges, but not too seedy, several well-maintained pool tables in the back.   He waits, drinks a beer or three, until the marks start to show up. When he finally moves in on them, he’s feeling pretty good. He can do this.

 

He’s in the middle of a game when the girl slinks up, tight jeans and a low-cut top over a pretty nice rack, and…well, that’s all Dean really needs to see before he returns his concentration to his game. Work first, play later. 

 

Dean quits the table when he’s three hundred to the good, and she’s waiting for him. He spends an hour and some of his money buying her drinks and letting her talk. Her hair is long and dark and there’s a space between her two front teeth. She’s not Penthouse material or anything, but she smells good and she seems willing, and that’s enough. By the time she gets around to inviting him back to her place, Dean knows her name is Desiree and that’s about all. If she decides to test him later over the material she’s just covered, he’s completely screwed.

 

It works out okay, because when they get back to her apartment she suddenly loses all interest in talking. She jumps him as soon as they get inside the door, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a hungry kiss. He gets with the program in a hurry, he’s real good at that, and he pushes her up against the wall just a little too hard. It knocks a sharp gasp out of her and he thinks _sorry,_ but he can’t get the word out before she’s got her tongue in his mouth. It’s all he can do to keep up with her; she’s kissing him frantically and running her hands over him, so goddamned _fierce_ with it. 

 

It’s exactly what he needs, to feel this, hard and sharp and almost painful. His head is light, like it’s floating away, like he’s watching himself from outside his body. He kisses her harder, trying to ground himself, needing something to hold on to. She moans a little and he twists his fingers in her hair and pulls her head back, sucks a mark into her neck.   She clutches at his shoulders, cries out. It doesn’t sound like pain to him. 

 

_So that’s how it is._

 

He cups her ass in both hands and ruts hard against her, kissing and biting at her neck and shoulders, until she pulls away. She grabs his sleeve, uses it to pull him to the bedroom. She starts to strip then, not slow or seductive, just getting the job done.  _Hell, yes,_ Dean thinks, and his clothes hit the floor. By the time Dean’s naked, Desiree is laid out on the bed, smiling up at him. She wets her lips. He smiles back with predatory intent and she spreads her legs; he sucks in a breath. He lowers himself over her and she pulls him in close, pushing her hips up against his dick. 

 

“Want you…inside me… _now_ ,” she whispers into his neck. Dean blinks.  _So much for foreplay._

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, low and rough. He sinks into her in one smooth motion, feeling her nails rake down his back, and he shivers. 

 

He sets up an easy rhythm, and it’s nice, but something’s off right there—“nice” just isn’t the word he’d normally use. Usually by this point he’s having to mentally break down his Glock or something, distract himself to slow things down. There’s none of that urgency here. He feels disconnected, like his body belongs to someone else and _what the hell?_  He gives himself a mental shake. _Thinking too much, Dean._

 

Then he feels her hand between them and it brings him up short, because Dean’s never been that guy. Any other time he’d put a stop to that shit, use his body to make her forget about touching herself—point of pride. But this time… _she wants to run this show, let her_ , and he does, but it feels wrong, almost shameful. He makes himself look her in the eye while she finishes, wonders what she sees in his. He keeps moving until she cries out and arches under him. His own body responds then, but everything is strange and out of sync, so that it’s a shock when the orgasm hits him.

 

As soon as he catches his breath, Dean gets up to leave. This whole thing feels weird and awkward in a way it hasn’t since he was a teenager. It’s so bad he takes his clothes into the bathroom to dress, and he knows it’s odd, but he can’t bring himself to care too much. He’s buttoning his jeans when he sees the red streaks on his chest in the mirror. He cranes around to look at his back, and she’s left long nail marks there, too.  _Damn._ How did he not notice that shit when it was happening? He must have been a lot drunker than he thought.

   
Dean heads back to Castle Rock.  He rubs at his neck as he drives, the muscles in his neck and shoulders getting tighter with the miles.  He wonders what happened to afterglow because he's honestly starting to feel like shit, his limbs tired and feeling heavy.  
 

 

The tires hit the rumble strip with a loud groan, and _what the hell?_ He’s not drunk and he shouldn’t be that tired.  _Why is he so out of it?_ Dean shrugs it off. It won’t be the first time his girl has gotten him where he needs to go with little or no help from him. Sometimes he swears she can drive herself. 

 

He pulls over at a truck stop and gets some coffee. It’s evidently enough, because the rest of the drive is uneventful, hardly any traffic on the interstate all the way into Castle Rock. Dean pulls up to the house and it’s completely dark. There are lights on at Kelly’s, though. Dean kills the engine, but he’s not in a particular hurry to go inside. It feels better here in the car. He pulls his bottle from under the seat and it doesn’t take him long to empty it, watching Kelly’s house. After a few minutes, it occurs to him that yeah, he’s actually _watching Kelly’s house,_ and that it’s really a creepy thing to do, especially with his brother inside it. His brother who’s with a girl.  

 

He gets out of the Impala, shoulders heavy and tense, like he’s carrying some kind of weight. It feels like there’s a storm coming. No telling where it’s going to land, but it’s not going to be good, that much is sure. He goes inside and heads straight for his bedroom. There’s another bottle there and that’s good. He’s not drunk enough for this.

 

**

 

Sam hangs up with Kelly; she’s ready to leave for dinner. He has a moment of pure frustration when his sleeve catches on the storm door as he’s going through, and he yanks at it irritably. He’s so beyond ready to get rid of these stupid crutches. Just one more day. 

 

Kelly comes out of her place just as Sam makes it to ground level, and of course Dean’s followed him out. Naturally, he can’t keep his mouth shut either. 

 

“Take the shot, Sammy,” Dean says, loud enough that Kelly’s got to hear him. Sam frowns at Dean over his shoulder and gets a “What?” look in return. He shakes his head in disgust.

 

It takes several minutes for Sam and Kelly to figure out how to fit the crutches into her little car; the back seat is too small and they finally wind up wedging them between the two front seats. Sam lowers himself into the passenger side. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, his legs fold up until his knees are higher than the dashboard. He feels like he’s sitting on the floor, but he still has to recline the seat a little to keep his head from brushing the ceiling. He thinks he couldn’t possibly feel more ridiculous, until he looks over and sees Dean on the porch laughing at him.

 

Kelly gets in the driver’s seat and Sam’s left shoulder is nearly touching hers. She smiles at him, face about a foot away from his, and Sam’s really hoping she’s not about to start laughing, too. She looks him up and down, gives him a sort of awed look. 

 

Kelly says, “Wow. There’s just so _much_ of you.” She makes it sound like a good thing and tops it off with a little smile and Sam feels better. He holds the crutches out of her way so she can put the car in gear and they’re off.

 

“I know a good Mexican place. What do you think?” Kelly says. 

 

“Sure. Sounds good.”

 

“It’s not far,” she says, with a wry grin.

 

“Even better,” Sam replies, grinning back.

 

The restaurant has a laid back atmosphere, no loud mariachi music or anything, and Sam feels comfortable right away. They order and the beer comes and he decides he’s going to enjoy himself after all. 

 

“So, what exactly did Dean mean by ‘take the shot’?” Kelly asks, looking at him innocently.

 

Sam winces. “Sorry. Sometimes Dean takes this ‘big brother’ thing a little too seriously.”

 

“I’m sure he just wants you to be happy,” Kelly says, then pauses a moment before she adds, “like, _really_ , _really_ happy.” 

 

Sam chokes on his beer and Kelly laughs. 

 

“Yeah,” Sam says, grinning ruefully. “That was actually pretty subtle for Dean.”

 

“It’s okay. My brother drives me nuts sometimes, too. It must be worse when you live together.”

 

Sam just nods. There’s too much in that one sentence for him to even start. He changes the subject.

 

“So, you never said, what are you studying in school?”

 

“Natural resource management.”

 

“Sounds interesting,” Sam says, and it really isn’t, but he likes the way her eyes flash when she talks, so he keeps her going on about it until the food comes. It is good and they spend a minute or two making small talk about that. 

 

Then Kelly asks, “So what about you? What do you want to be when you grow up, Sam?”

 

He chuckles. “Good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

 

“You should go to school…I mean, you’re obviously smart.” She pauses. “Sorry—it’s none of my business.”  
  
 

“It’s okay. Actually I went to college. Stanford.”

 

“But not anymore.”

 

“No.” Sam looks down at his plate. “Just…some things happened and I decided to take some time off, went on a road trip with Dean, and then our Dad died, and…I just never went back.” It’s more than he meant to say and he takes a bite of his enchilada, avoiding Kelly’s eyes. 

 

“You could go back.”

 

He smiles a little. “Seems like another life now.” He takes a deep breath. “So, where does your brother live?”

 

Kelly quirks. “What was your college major?”

 

Sam gives her a quizzical look. “Pre-law. Why?”

 

“That explains a lot,” she says, nodding. 

 

“It does?” 

 

“You’re really good at steering the conversation away from things you don’t want to talk about. You would have made a great lawyer.” 

 

Sam huffs a small laugh. “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.”

 

“Just an observation.” This time Kelly changes the subject, and they talk about nothing much until Kelly starts to yawn and they decide it’s time to go. Sam’s kind of sorry it’s over.

 

Back at the house, Sam wrestles himself out of the car and onto his feet and “walks” Kelly up onto her porch. They pause at the door.  Jax barks madly from the backyard. 

 

“I don’t think Jax likes me very much,” Sam says.

 

“Jax likes you; I wouldn’t have let you in my house if he didn’t,” Kelly answers, smiling up at him. She yawns again and they laugh. 

 

“You’re tired,” Sam says, reaching for her. 

 

“Uh huh,” Kelly says, as she steps close.

 

“I should go,” He says, leaning down to kiss her. He tries to make it good, memorable. He’s afraid it’s going to have to last him a long time.

 

When they finally pull back, Kelly says, “Come in for a while.”

 

He shouldn’t. He leans down and sucks an open-mouthed kiss at the base of her neck; she tips her head to the side for him. 

 

“I can’t. Gotta go,” he says, nuzzling her ear.

 

Kelly nods and he pushes her hair behind her shoulder, kisses across it and up her neck.

 

“Come inside anyway,” she says, hand on his cheek.

 

They go inside and he eases himself onto the couch. He feels a lot less awkward when he’s not trying to stand. Things really improve when Kelly doesn’t even bother being coy, just crawls onto the couch next to him and slinks up under his arm like a cat. He cups her face in his hand and kisses her, soft slide of tongues, mouth open under his, hot and sweet. She swings one leg over him then, straddles his lap, and _oh, Jesus_ , it feels so good. She rocks against him and he pushes back, groaning softly, can’t help it. It dawns on him then—this is probably the least awkward position they could pick, with him still dragging a cast around.  _God_ , no wonder he likes this girl.

 

He slides his hands up under her shirt and she lifts her arms so he can pull it off. She unhooks her bra and lets it fall off her shoulders slowly. She’s gorgeous like that and he kisses her hard, thumbs gently teasing her nipples, and she moans into his mouth. She pulls back, says, “Now you,” and reaches for his shirt. They work together to get it off him and he pulls her in, skin on skin, warm and silky smooth, and he can’t even think, it’s been so long since he’s had this.  _Since Jessica_. He has to pull back a little then, try to breathe through it. 

 

That’s when it comes, a soft touch across the back of his neck. Maybe it’s just a draft, a shiver of nerves, but it feels like a presence, a benediction. Something slips away from him then, like a second skin he’s been wearing, armor to protect himself from the hurt, thick and heavy. It’s loss and relief at the same time, and then he knows. This is okay. 

 

He looks into Kelly’s deep green gaze, drinks it in, feels like he’s falling and he can’t stop it. He pulls her in, overwhelmed with want of her, and she responds, kissing him back, wet and deep and soft. 

 

Sam pulls back long enough to say, “Off,” and he works her jeans open. She gets up and slips them off, kicking her shoes out of the way. She leans over him, kissing him and reaching for his belt and he helps her. She pulls him out, wraps her fingers around his cock and he groans deep in his throat, letting his head fall back. She slides to the floor and leans over, runs her tongue up his hard length from base to tip. He tenses, shaking a little, trying not to move too much. Then she takes him in her mouth, working him slowly with her tongue against the underside, sweeping the flat of it over the head on the upstroke, and he’s just trying to breathe, it’s so damned good. 

 

He reaches for her when he’s had all he can take, and she pulls off and climbs back into his lap. He slides his hand down her stomach, makes her shiver when he slips it between her legs and _God_ , she’s so wet. She shudders and he braces her with his other arm around her, leans his forehead against her shoulder. He dips his finger inside her, gathers the moisture there and slicks the thin skin with it, rubbing and circling until she moans and shudders. He lets his fingers slip further down, inside her, keeps working her with his thumb, hot and slick and _shit,_ she feels so good. She’s panting and digging her nails into his shoulders, until she finally cries out and flexes against his hand.  _Jesus—_ the sounds she’s making; he’s almost ready to lose it just from that. 

 

The second she stops shaking he lifts her up and onto his cock, slides home with a groan, and she echoes it. He holds her to his chest and thrusts up into her, face buried in her neck. She’s burning hot around him, tight and sweet, and how did he go without this for so long, because _oh shit, it’s so fucking good_. She’s helping now, rocking and riding him and she starts talking in his ear, low and sweet— _fuck, Sam…oh yeah, just like that…feel so good,_ and he’s gone. His thighs lock for long seconds as he pulses inside her, shuddering and panting against her salty-sweet neck.  

 

He’s starting to come down when Kelly sits up enough to kiss him long and deep. He takes her face in his hands and keeps kissing her softly until she sinks back against him and he wraps her up in his arms, sits there holding her to him, running his fingers through her hair. 

 

He never wants to move, but after a few minutes Kelly eases off him and they both get dressed. He’s thinking he should go when Kelly pushes him gently back against the arm of the couch with a hand on his chest and settles in with her back against him. He puts his arms around her; there’s no way he can’t. They stay that way for a couple of hours, talking a little, but mostly just enjoying the comfort. Sam wants to just stop time right here for a while, make himself a little oasis in the middle of it all, but he can’t make his brain stop thinking, wondering. 


	5. Escape Velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are stuck on one place while Sam recuperates from an injury. Dean has a little trouble dealing.

Sam groans and reaches to shut off his six-thirty alarm. He stayed with Kelly too long last night, didn’t want to leave, but he’s got to get up—his appointment is in two hours and the drive takes an hour by itself. Definitely worth it to get the damned cast off, though. He could probably have Dean cut it off—he’s done it before—but this was a pretty complicated injury and he’s getting the followup x-ray this time. He’s not willing to walk with a limp for the rest of his life. 

 

Sam gets out of the shower. That’s another thing he won’t miss, the half-assed bathing he’s been doing for the last several weeks. He pulls on his jeans, surprised he hasn’t heard Dean moving around yet. Must have been another rough night. Sam wonders if he should say something about the drinking, not that talking to Dean is likely to change anything. Something’s going on with him, though. Dean’s never really taken well to staying in one place too long, but this... Sam’s honestly starting to worry about him.

 

It’s still too quiet when Sam is done in the bathroom.  _Better get Dean up_. 

 

“Hey, Dean. Gotta hit the road, man. Let’s go!” 

 

Dean’s sprawled diagonally across the bed, snoring loudly. Sam makes his way over, maneuvering carefully through a maze of dirty socks and t-shirts, almost goes down when the toe of a crutch catches on one of Dean’s boots. He leans over the bed to shake Dean’s shoulder and the smell of booze hits him. 

 

“Jesus, Dean. What did you do, shower in the stuff?” Dean doesn’t stir at the sound of Sam’s voice. “Hey! You okay?” 

 

He finally groans and turns over. “Wha’?” he mumbles. Sam was starting to think he had alcohol poisoning and he breathes a small sigh of relief. Dean starts snoring again before Sam can finish the thought.

 

Sam grits his teeth, irritation rising as he watches Dean sleep.  _Fuck this._ He can drive just fine with one leg, and he can damn sure live without his brother’s alcoholic reek for two hundred miles. No reason Dean can’t just stay here and sleep it off. He wasn’t going to work today, anyway.

 

Sam slips on his shirt and grabs his phone and wallet. He heads for the Impala, stopping at the front door to fumble in his wallet, make sure he has the address to the medical complex. He can’t use his GPS; it hasn’t worked since the accident—something busted in the fall and he hasn’t had a chance to get a new one. Sam was kind of counting on Dean to find this place, in fact, because he has absolutely no memory of its location. 

 

Sam’s got the key in the car’s door lock when Kelly comes out of the house with Jax on a leash. She’s wearing a yellow wind suit and has her hair pulled up in a ponytail, obviously dressed for a run with the dog, nothing special. She still looks good, though.

Jax runs over to Sam, bouncing and whimpering, dragging Kelly and wagging his stubby tail for all he’s worth. 

 

“Hey, Jax,” Sam says, reaching to pet him, but he won’t stay still long enough for Sam to get a hand on him. Sam tries for a minute, finally gives it up. He looks up and smiles at Kelly then, says, “Hey.” 

 

“Hey, yourself. Going somewhere?”

 

“Yeah, I’m finally getting this hunk of plaster off my foot,” Sam says.

 

“By yourself?” Kelly frowns.

 

“I guess so. Dean’s…sick.” 

 

She looks at him a little too long, enough that Sam gets a bit uncomfortable with the scrutiny, then says, “You can’t drive all the way to Denver by yourself.”

 

Sam says, “Uh, yeah I can. The cast is on my left foot.”

 

Kelly looks doubtful. “Maybe, but the traffic’s pretty bad on the interstate this time of day…why don’t you let me take you?”

 

Sam snorts, smiles a little. “I appreciate the thought, but there’s no way I’m making a two hundred-mile roundtrip in your car.”

 

Kelly chuckles. “I guess I can’t blame you. At least let me go with you. In case you need anything?”

 

“I have to be there at eight-thirty…”

 

“Plenty of time,” Kelly says brightly. “Be back in a few.” Sam starts to protest again, raises one hand toward her retreating back, but she’s already gone. She wrestles Jax back to the house and disappears inside. Sam’s expecting a wait, but Kelly returns in just a few minutes. Shortly after that they’re heading up the interstate to Denver. 

 

It’s been a while since Sam’s driven anywhere and it feels good, but it’s weird having someone else in the car, someone besides Dean. Kelly’s scent is jarringly feminine against the familiar background smells of sweat, smoke and leather. She’s quiet for the first part of the trip and Sam watches her out of the corner of his eye. She’s sitting with her left leg tucked partly under her, body angled a little toward him. For some reason an image of his mother flashes through his mind, and he thinks about how she could have sat like that, in that very spot. He pushes the thought away. It’s not his car. That’s not his life. 

 

Kelly says, “So…Dean’s sick, huh?” Her tone is perfectly neutral as far as Sam can tell, but the question still rubs him the wrong way. 

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I haven’t seen him around much lately. He works down at Hughes, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Sam answers again, pretending to focus on the traffic.

 

“He must know a lot about cars. I mean, this baby here. Really something.”

 

Sam’s racking his brain for a way to change the subject; Dean’s not really on his top ten list of conversational topics this morning. 

 

“Yeah, it was our Dad’s car.”  _Great_. Two subjects even less appealing than Dean: Dad and the Impala.  _How do I get out of this?_

 

Kelly smiles, seemingly oblivious to Sam’s discomfort. “Car as family heirloom. You don’t see that too often.” She goes quiet for a minute. “So where did you guys grow up?”

 

It occurs to Sam then just how stupid he is. He’s supposed to be disengaging from this, taking a step back from Kelly, and instead he lets her get in the car with him. Two-hour drive—Kelly’s got a captive audience and Sam knows she’s smart enough to make good use of the time.  _Sam Winchester, you’re a moron._

 

“Um, all over, actually. My dad was in the military. We moved around a lot.” Technically it’s all true.

 

“That must have been difficult for you.”

 

“Sometimes. You get used to it.”

 

Sam sees Kelly nod, out of the corner of his eye. He gets the feeling she’s looking at him a little too hard but doesn’t check. Eye contact is a bad idea.

 

Fortunately for him, the congestion starts to get worse then, the exit signs for Aurora begin to flash by, and he has to concentrate on where he’s going. Kelly knows a lot more about the town than he does and she’s a big help getting them to where they’re going. Best of all, the heavy conversation is over. For now.

 

**

 

The wheels of medicine grind slow and it’s almost noon by the time they get the cast sawed off and the x-rays finished, and Sam finally sees the doctor. 

 

“Well, Mr. Smith, it looks like everything has healed really well, not that I expected any less with your age and good physical condition,” the doctor says, peering at the x-ray film, bright with light spots showing the chunks of metal that are now holding his foot to his leg. 

 

“Just take it easy, work back up to regular activities gradually, and you should be fine. Some people have trouble with the pins, but you probably don’t need to worry about that for a while. I’ll give you a sheet of exercises to do…” The doctor rummages through some folders.

 

Sam’s left calf is shriveled-looking, pale and about half the size of the right. He stands and carefully sets his weight down on his foot. The ankle is sore and stiff, but he smiles with relief at being able to use it at all. 

 

The doctor finally comes up with the paper he wants. He hands it to Sam, shakes his hand and wishes him well, and that’s it. Another injury survived, another set of scars added to his collection. 

 

It’s oddly startling to walk out into the waiting room and find Kelly there, smiling happily at him, and Sam realizes he was expecting to see Dean. Kelly gets up and approaches him, gives him a tentative look, like she’s wondering if he wants help or something, but he waves her off. He checks out at the desk—no trouble about the credit card—and they head out the door.

 

Sam’s limping slightly on the way to the car, but the pain is nothing he can’t handle. He stops on the edge of the curb and checks his phone for messages, doesn’t find any. He’s not really surprised. Dean’s probably still out of it, considering his condition earlier. 

 

Kelly slides her arm around his back then, smiling up at him and he pulls her close almost reflexively. 

 

“Mm, it’s nice having those crutches out of the way,” Kelly says. 

 

Sam’s in full agreement with that sentiment, looking into her eyes, watching the sunlight shine on her hair. Right then he doesn’t care who might be watching; he kisses her full on the mouth. She tastes like cinnamon, and the look she gives him when she finally pulls away makes his stomach twist. He hopes to God it’s just a hunger pang.

 

“Let’s get some lunch,” he says. 

 

**

 

Lunch is fast food; they don’t have anything special they need to do in the city and Kelly wants to get back and check on Jax. Sam finds his way back to the interstate with no problem. 

 

“So…you’re out of the cast. Now what?” Kelly asks when they’ve gone a few miles. It’s a good question.

 

“I guess I look for a job. No excuse to lie around the house anymore,” he finishes wryly. 

 

Kelly nods. “What do you think you want to do?” she asks, not looking at him. 

 

“Something will come along; it always does.” 

 

Kelly lets out a breath, a sound that falls somewhere between a sigh and an exasperated chuckle, and Sam knows he should just let it lie, but he says it anyway.

 

“What?”

 

She looks at him then, dipping her head and quirking her mouth, and a little thrill of fear runs down his spine when he realizes. He cares what she thinks of him. 

 

“I can’t see it, you just drifting like that. You don’t strike me as that…passive, I guess.”

 

Sam laughs shortly. He doesn’t think he’s been “passive,” either—just helpless. The shit just keeps on coming at him and there’s nothing he can do about it. And yeah, maybe he’s a little bitter, but it’s his reality, and none of it is anything he can explain to the girl beside him. This sweet, funny, _smart_ girl _._

 

“I know it’s none of my business, I just…” she pauses, gives an exasperated sigh. “Okay, look, I suck at beating around the bush. I just need to have some idea where things are going…you know, with us. I mean, you just show up one day, you’re the guy from nowhere, and I’m afraid…” Kelly makes a helpless gesture with her hands, lets them fall into her lap. 

 

Sam looks out his window, bites his thumbnail. Clouds are gathering and he thinks it might even be cold enough to snow soon. It’s Colorado, after all. He sighs heavily.

 

“It’s complicated, Kelly. I can’t really explain…I left college, that life, for a reason. Things happened, and now I just…I can’t promise anything. I don’t know where I’ll be tomorrow, you know?” 

 

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms and leaning back against the seat. “Okay. I appreciate your honesty, really.” The rest of the ride is very quiet. 

 

They pull up to the house and Sam kills the engine. Kelly turns to face him, smiles a little. “I’d better see to Jax, before he tears down the fence.” She looks down at her lap, then back up, takes a deep breath. “Here’s the thing, Sam. You said you don’t know where you’ll be tomorrow, and that’s something I need to know if we’re going to keep doing this.” She looks him in the eye. “When you figure it out, you know where I am.”

 

There’s a heavy, tight feeling in his gut, like he’s swallowed a boulder, but he looks at her and nods, smiling faintly.

 

“I’m glad your ankle is better,” she says. She kisses him on the mouth and he closes his eyes, keeps them closed until he hears Kelly shut the car door behind her.

 

Sam waits until she’s inside before he walks to the house. He hadn’t noticed Dean sitting on the front step when they pulled up, but he guesses he might have been a little distracted. He sits down heavily on the step below Dean. 

 

“Got your cast off,” Dean says.

 

“Managed to drag your ass out of bed,” Sam replies, in the same monotone.

 

Dean gives him a look from under his brows. “Well, now that everybody’s on the same page…” he says, rolling his eyes. “What’d the doctor say?”

 

“Just that it looks good, but I should ‘work up to regular activities gradually’,” Sam says sarcastically. 

 

Dean snorts. “I’m guessin’ you didn’t tell him your ‘regular activities’ include digging up graves and beheading vampires.”

 

“Yeah, I think I failed to mention that.” 

 

Dean nods toward Kelly’s house. “You take your little girlfriend out for a ride in my car?”

 

“She’s not my girlfriend, Dean,” Sam says, then pauses. It sounds a little too high school, even to him. “She offered to go…insisted, really,” Sam finishes.

 

“Told you you had a shot with her,” Dean says, smirking.

 

“Yeah, but a shot at what,” Sam mutters.

 

Dean goes suddenly still and Sam looks at him curiously. He can’t read the look on Dean’s face, exactly, but he doesn’t think he’s angry, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if Dean had been a little ticked at Sam taking off in his car without him. Wariness, maybe? He doesn’t have time to figure it out before the look is gone and Dean gets up, reaches a hand out to help Sam. 

 

Inside, Dean goes to the kitchen and starts rattling around, looking for something to eat, maybe; Sam’s not sure. Sam plops down onto the couch, exhausted and wondering why. It’s not like he did that much today, other than hurry up and wait. Whatever the reason, he’s sound asleep in a couple of minutes.

 

**

 

It’s almost dark outside when Sam wakes up, dry-mouthed and disoriented. He can tell from the quality of the silence that Dean’s not here. He starts to twist around to a position where he can get up, then smiles as he remembers he can walk on his own again. He goes to the window, sees the Impala’s missing. Dean’s off on his nightly rounds, apparently. 

 

Sam goes to the kitchen, reveling in the freedom of mobility. He grabs a beer from the refrigerator and goes back to the couch to drink it. He keeps thinking about what Kelly said, that he’s “drifting.” It’s such a lazy-sounding word, and he doesn’t think it describes his life very well at all. Drifting, hell—it’s more like flying down white-water rapids, out of control, bouncing off rocks and taking on water all the way. If he’s passive, it’s just because he’s waiting for the current to finally pull him under. He’s had a reprieve these last few weeks, but that doesn’t mean his bill isn’t going to come due, and soon.

 

A knock at the door pulls him out of his morbid thoughts and he realizes he’s sitting in the dark. He gets up and looks out the window, sees Kelly standing uncertainly on the porch. He turns on the light and opens the door quickly, startling Kelly so that she jumps. 

 

“Oh, geez, Sam! You scared me, I…” she pauses. “I just saw the car was gone and it was dark over here and I thought…” She chuckles nervously. “Okay, now you think I’m nuts…”

 

She’s too cute, all flustered like that, and Sam grins. “It’s okay. I have a thing for crazy stalker chicks.”

 

She laughs but still seems a little embarrassed, looks down at the floorboards. Sam ducks his head a little and looks into her face, trying to get her to look back at him. He turns serious.

 

“I am kind of surprised you’re here,” he continues. “I don’t have any more answers than I did this afternoon.”

 

Kelly flicks her eyes to the side, wets her lips. “I was just afraid you left without saying goodbye.”

 

He shakes his head, “No,” and says, “I wouldn’t,” but he thinks _I should; that’s exactly what I should do._ Just leave in the night and never come back. It would be so much easier, easier than this, having to look her in the eye and wrench away from her, pulling out by the roots, kill the growth of something he’s been denying since the first. 

 

They stare for a long moment. Sam sees the want in her eyes, but there’s something else, a feeling he knows. He’s afraid to give it a name, to make it too real. Something breaks inside him then and he reaches for her, pulls her in with both arms hard enough to make her grunt softly and bunch her hands in his shirt. He kisses her hard and she opens for him, soft slide of tongue against his, and he deepens the kiss, wanting more.  _Inside,_ they need to get inside the house, and he grabs her, half-carries her through the door, kicking it shut behind him and pushing her hard against it. They’re both panting, kissing and clutching at each other, like they’re afraid to let go. 

 

Sam pulls back, puts his hands under her thighs and lifts her up, pinning her against the door with his body, never taking his eyes from hers.   She wraps her arms and legs around him and he rolls his hips against her, soft grunt slipping out of him at the pressure on his hard cock. 

 

His bad ankle gives a warning throb and he shifts Kelly further up his body, carries her across the small room and sets her down on the couch. He lowers himself over her, between her thighs, and kisses her again. She responds by sucking his tongue into her mouth hard and his hips buck against her without his consent.  _Fuck,_ so good, making his head spin with sensation, _too much_. He sucks and mouths along her jaw, down her neck, and she tips her head back for him, moaning and breathing hard. 

 

Sam starts unbuttoning her shirt, pressing open-mouthed kisses into her neck, working his way down, and Kelly reaches up and pops the front clasp of her bra, pulling it back from her breasts. A soft laugh slips out of him then, it’s so unexpected, and Kelly smiles, too. Sam leans back in, runs his tongue around her nipple, enjoying the feel of it hardening, the sight of the gooseflesh that spreads across her smooth skin. He sucks it into his mouth and she shudders, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling just short of too hard. 

 

Then she slides her hands down, under his shirt, and he rocks back onto his heels and slips it off over his head. He kisses back down her stomach, tongue swirling and sucking, wants his mouth on her everywhere. He unfastens her jeans hurriedly and pulls them down. She reaches over to push one shoe off with the other foot, nearly clipping him on the chin with her knee. He jerks back just in time, making her smile and whisper, “Nice reflexes, cowboy.” 

 

He grins back a little dirty, letting his intent show and watching her face as he leans in and slides his tongue down the center of her, smiling against her when she throws her head back and moans. He hooks his arms under her thighs and sets her legs over his shoulders, spreading her open. He leans down, loses himself in the smell and taste of her, flicking his tongue against her clit, licking, sucking, pushing inside her, until Kelly’s moaning and straining against his face.  _It’s good, it’s so good_ , he thinks, as she starts to shake, and he growls his approval against her. She gives a sharp cry as she comes, wet and heat pouring out of her, and he grips her hips and holds her hard against him until she comes down, panting and shaking. 

 

Sam strips off his pants and fishes a condom out of his wallet. It’s been there a while, but it should be okay. He’s shaking as he lowers himself back between her legs, and she reaches for him, running her hands up his back, scratching gently with her nails. He pushes inside her slowly, wanting to feel every second, but it’s so hot, so tight, _God—so hard to go slow._  He looks down at her face, her darkened eyes, and he kisses her, thrusting his tongue in rhythm with his cock, hot and wet, _so damned good._ He pulls back and looks, her face, _God_ , _she’s beautiful_ , eyes locked on his, mouth whispering his name, as she rocks up into him. He can feel his orgasm tingling up and he lets it build, balls drawn up tight, until Kelly makes a soft sound against his ear and clenches around him, squeezing him. His thighs seize and he comes hard, pressing his face into her neck. 

 

He lies there a minute, catching his breath, while Kelly cards her fingers through his hair. He hates to move, but he’s sure there’s too much of his weight on her, not like he can do much about it on the narrow couch like they are, so he gets up and gets rid of the condom, slips his jeans back on. Kelly watches him, then sits up slowly, stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders. 

 

He grins a little uncertainly. “Are you okay?”

 

“Neck’s a little stiff, but no permanent damage. I’m good,” she says, smiling and reaching for her clothes. 

 

There’s a sharp noise in the front yard then, clatter of something falling. Kelly jumps and Sam tenses. He hears boots on the porch and the door bursts open, slamming against the wall with a bang. It’s Dean.

 

He stands in the doorway for a minute like he’s trying to get his bearings or something, and if the noisy entrance left Sam in any doubt as to how drunk Dean really is, there’s none now. He’s carrying it pretty well, but Sam’s seen his brother in every state of inebriation and this is _bad._ Like minutes away from unconsciousness bad. 

 

Kelly’s looking at Dean in frozen horror, still half-dressed. Dean looks at her and starts nodding his head, glassy-eyed, but still managing a knowing expression, like he’s finally figured something out. The head movement unbalances him enough that he has to put his hand on the doorjamb to keep from swaying. 

 

“Dean…” Sam starts, and Dean puts his other hand up, palm out.

 

“No, Sammy, proud of you, man. Finally grew a pair and fucked her. Good for you,” Dean says.

 

Sam sucks in a breath at the crudity and he gets up, positions himself between Kelly and Dean. Kelly has her clothes mostly on now and she gives Sam a sympathetic look. 

 

“I’m going,” she says. Sam nods and bunches his fist in the front of Dean’s shirt, moving him bodily out of the doorway and bracing Dean against the wall with his forearm on his chest, not sure if he’s holding him back or holding him up. Kelly squeezes Sam’s arm as she passes him, and she’s gone. 

 

Sam shuts the door as soon as Kelly’s inside her house and turns back to Dean. 

 

“Jesus, Dean. What’s the matter with you?” Sam says, hand still balled up in his shirt. “Never mind, don’t answer that. You’re drunk off your ass, so I’m gonna let that ugly little scene slide for now. You can apologize to Kelly in the morning.”

 

“Don’t do me any favors,” Dean mutters. Sam shakes his head. There’s no use talking to him when he’s like this.

 

“Come on, let’s get you to bed,” Sam says and starts to pull him toward the bedroom.

 

“I don’t need your fuckin’ help,” Dean growls. “Who asked you, huh? When have I ever asked you for anything?”

 

Sam starts to speak, but then the look in Dean’s eye brings him up short. It’s hopeless, the face of somebody who looks for nothing good and gets exactly what he expects. It’s a darkness Sam’s seen before, but not since…

 

Dean jerks away from him suddenly, and evidently he’s not as incapacitated as Sam thought, because he takes a swing at him. Sam’s not ready and he’s standing too close to dodge effectively. Dean manages to clip him across the jaw, not too hard, but enough to piss him off.

 

“Fuck! Knock that shit off, Dean,” Sam warns, swiping at his chin with the back of his hand.

 

Dean overbalances slightly, but he comes back with the other arm for another go. He gets pretty close to hitting Sam again, but Sam’s ready for him this time, gets him in a headlock. He drags Dean back toward the bathroom, trying to keep from hurting either of them too badly, but Dean makes contact a couple of times on the way. They’re bouncing off the hallway walls, swearing and struggling, until Sam finally manages to wrestle Dean into the shower. He turns both faucets on full force. 

 

“Fucking fuck!” Dean yells when the cold water hits him, then he’s gasping too hard to say much else. Sam holds him under the shower spray until the water starts to warm up and Dean starts to calm down, then he turns it off and hauls Dean out. He’s shivering and gasping, blinking water out of his eyes, and Sam helps him strip off the wet clothes without either of them saying anything more. He puts him in bed and Dean’s out before his head hits the pillow. 

 

Sam stands in the bedroom doorway, arms folded, watching Dean sleep. He tries to remember the last time he really looked at Dean, really saw him, and he can’t. It’s pretty clear when he looks back, though. He can catalog the signs of Dean’s decay by the passing weeks. If he hadn’t been so caught up in his own problems, busy thinking about Kelly, so damned self-absorbed, he’d have seen it a lot sooner. Sam decides he’s been about the shittiest brother imaginable; so used to Dean taking care of him, it never crossed his mind to wonder if Dean was all right. 

 

But Sam can fix this. He has to. First thing tomorrow.


	6. Escape Velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are stuck on one place while Sam recuperates from an injury. Dean has a little trouble dealing.

Sam opens his eyes, then scrunches them shut, wincing away from the assault of the too-bright sunlight. He rolls to his back and rubs both hands across his face as images from the previous night’s debacle come flooding back. It took him hours to go to sleep after, puzzling over it all, where things with Dean went wrong, how to make it right. He can’t pass it off as inevitable—much as he’d like to—just Dean skidding to the bottom of the downhill slope he’s been on ever since Dad. The thought stirs the ache in his gut, the one that’s never really gone away.  _God, I wish you were here, old man. I don’t know what to do._

 

One thing is certain—he’s not accomplishing a damned thing here. Unless it’s ruining Kelly’s life as well. 

 

Which brings him to problem number two. He’s got to talk to Kelly today if he can. It was a mistake to even let her in the house last night. He should have told her goodbye at the door, made a clean break of it. He knew there was no future for them from the first. Pretending otherwise was self-indulgence at best; at worst it was endangerment. 

 

Sam sighs and tries to gather himself to face what he’s got to do. Lying here thinking about it is just more procrastination; there’s no reason to wait. Dean’s never had a problem with leaving on a moment’s notice before and Sam’s sure he’ll be even less inclined to stick around now. Sam reaches for his phone to check the time: ten o’clock. Later than he figured, but the extra sleep won’t hurt him; it’s going to be a long and difficult day. Besides, there’s no point waking Dean before his system has had time to process the alcohol. Must have been a hell of a lot of it, from what Sam saw last night.

 

Sam swings his legs out of bed, flexing his stiff ankle with a sense of freedom. At least that’s one less thing to worry about. He gets up and starts down the hall, but the sight of Dean’s room stops him dead. A twinge of pain shoots up his bad leg when he stutters to a halt at the door. 

 

Dean’s room is clean. No dirty clothes on the floor, no trash, nothing. The bed is empty.  _What the hell?_  Sam walks into the room, checks the closet and there’s nothing there either.   Wow, Dean must be really anxious to leave. He’s already packed up.

 

The front room is just as clean, and the Impala’s not outside. Sam frowns. Maybe Dean’s gone to square things at work? Dean’s not functioning at full capacity—last night made that painfully obvious—but something’s weird here. He’s a little relieved when he sees the note, Dean’s haphazard scrawl on a smudged diner receipt and weighted to the kitchen table with an old pocketknife.

 

_Sorry about last night. Take the shot. D._

 

Sam picks up the scrap of paper, glancing at the small pile of cash that was under it. The situation is pretty clear; he just can’t quite wrap his mind around it. Then it slots into place like the click of a camera’s shutter.

 

_Nobody said a word on the drive home. Dad marched them into the house, the heat of anger baking off him in waves Sam could feel. Sam slipped around the kitchen doorframe—afraid to stay, afraid to leave them alone. Weeks of tension between them had ended in a trip to the police station, and Sam still didn’t know what it was all about._

_John was standing with his back to Dean, leaning over the counter with his head down. Dean started for the bedroom and John whirled in his direction, stopping Dean with the motion as sure as if he’d laid hands on him. They squared off on opposite sides of the kitchen table, and Sam could feel the threat of violence in the air. He waited for John to say the words, deal out the punishment. Whatever it was had to be better than the waiting._

_John looked down at the table, swallowed hard like he was having trouble getting the words out._

_“Do you ever_ think _when you get yourself into this shit, Dean? God, I know you’re not stupid! Sam looks up to you! Everything you do affects_ him _!”_

_Sam saw it then, something breaking in Dean, he just didn’t really understand it. Then Dean disappeared some time in the night. He was gone for four days before John finally located him, brought him back. Sam never knew where he’d been or what Dad said to him. It was never mentioned again._

 

Sam hasn’t thought about that night in years, though he remembers it seemed like a huge deal at fourteen years old. His own teenage rebellion had kicked in not long after, and he’d started planning his escape. But he never forgot the look in Dean’s eyes, beaten and lost, _I give up_ flashing there, clear as if he’d said it out loud. And Sam saw it again last night. 

 

It’s not that hard to figure out. Dean’s been like a fish out of water the whole time they’ve been here. Life on the road, on the hunt—that’s all Dean knows. It’s messed up, but Sam’s honestly not sure he’s much better himself. Kelly’s right, in a way. Staying here is denial, really—they’re just waiting for the axe to fall. 

 

He wheels and stalks to the bedroom, ignoring his ankle’s complaints and grabbing his phone from the pocket of his jeans. He closes his eyes, flips the phone closed against his forehead when he gets Dean’s voicemail. Sam wanders back to the kitchen, stands at the table looking at the money. 

 

He feels like he’s stepped into some alternate reality, some place where the usual rules don’t apply.  Dean’s left him here, in some little time-bubble of false normality. He sits down hard in the kitchen chair, puts his face in his hands. He laughs shakily. He’s a grown adult, sitting here feeling lost, abandoned—like a kid left behind in a gas station restroom. 

 

_What are you doing, Dean?_

 

**

 

Dean is driving. He can still do that—climb into the car and let her hard shell of steel close him off from the world, the only form of sanctuary left to him. Too bad her sleek metal skin can’t save him from thinking. There’s not much traffic this time of the morning and the road stretches straight and lonely ahead. He’s not even clear where he’s heading, but he figures it doesn’t matter much, as long as it’s away. It’s not like it’s anything new. He’s used to wandering, no idea what’s going to happen next. It’s like hacking a path through the undergrowth with a machete. He can slash and cut, but there’s always more jungle in front of him. He won’t see the end coming until it’s on him.

 

 _Christ_. This is the problem with being alone. The soundtrack is so fucking depressing. He slots in a tape.

 

It doesn’t stop the fuzzy images from the night before from crowding into his mind. Dean snorts softly, shakes his head. In a long and storied career of fuck-ups, this one was right up there in the top five. But that’s not why he left, the big scene at the house. He knew what he had to do as soon as he saw the two of them together in the car. 

 

Dean’s not really sorry about any of it—that’s the thing. If Bobby’s right and there really is a war coming, then it’s best to sideline Sam right now, clean amputation for them both. Dean’s always known he can’t hang on to his little brother forever, no matter what he might have said to Sam, or what Sam said back. And maybe Sam even believes it, that he’s committed to the hunting life, but Dean’s not stupid. It’s not in Sam. Take a look at the evidence—a few short weeks sitting still and Sam’s already started to put down roots. Dean’s not going to be the one to tear him loose, watch him wither away. Not this time.

 

Dean’s crossing the Colorado-Wyoming border when the snow starts to fall.   The storm closes in around him and it feels like a blessing, covering his tracks with a thick blanket of clean white. It won’t keep Sam from finding him if he sets his mind to it, but Dean’s not going that far anyway. He can’t leave Sam completely unguarded, not after he promised Dad. If it comes down to it, they’ve all just got to hope Dean’s got a kamikaze run left in him. There’s no other way. 

 

**

 

Sam rubs his hands over his face, trying to think. He’s still got a credit card, so he can get a rental, go after Dean. There’s no way Sam’s leaving him on his own for long, not the way he’s been acting. He doesn’t think Dean would do anything too drastic, try to hurt himself. Dean thinks suicide is “chickenshit”—Sam’s heard him say so more than once. But that doesn’t mean he won’t let someone or something else do it for him, try to go out in some stupid macho blaze of glory, and Sam’s not entirely sure how deep this problem goes. He doesn’t think it will come to that, but he’s not willing to trust his instinct. He’s obviously not been paying enough attention to Dean’s state of mind.

 

Sam looks around for the laptop and finds it sitting on the coffee table. He should be able to track Dean by his cell signal without too much trouble. He turns it on, tapping his hand nervously against the table while he watches the BIOS check scroll by.   It stops: “No bootable drive detected.” He turns it off and back on. Same error.  _Huh._  Maybe the hard drive got jarred loose somehow. Sam heaves a sigh and flips the computer over. He has to go back to his room and toss his bag to find a small screwdriver. He opens up the access panel and lets out a small noise of disgust. The hard drive is missing.  _Shit, Dean._

 

He needs to find a computer. He could probably walk to the library, but he doesn’t know where it is and he doesn’t want to take the time to find out. It’s maybe not the best of circumstances to ask for a favor, but he does need to talk to Kelly before he leaves. 

 

Sam’s standing with his hand poised to knock on Kelly’s door when the surreal feeling sweeps over him again.   Laughter tries to bubble up from some unhinged place inside him.  _Hey, neighbor, just need to borrow your computer for awhile, okay? Fuck._

 

Jax comes to the door with her. He goes wild when he sees Sam, jumping up on the screen like he’s going to come straight through. Kelly laughs and grabs him by the collar.

 

“Dumbass,” she says, as she opens the door. 

 

“Yeah, I probably deserve that one,” Sam says. Kelly smiles at him.

 

“I meant the dog, but if it fits…” she shrugs, looking at him and waiting. 

 

“Kelly, I’m really sorry about last night,” he says, reaching down to scratch Jax’s ear just to have something to do with his hands.

 

“I appreciate it, Sam, but it’s not your fault. You can’t pick your family.” 

 

Sam winces slightly. “No, I mean…Dean’s not usually like that, he’s just…” Sam breaks off. He can’t think of anything that will make sense to her. He lets out a breath.

 

“Anyway, he’s gone and I need to find him. I hate to ask you, but can I borrow your computer?”

 

Kelly gives him a confused look. “Gone? Uh, I guess so, sure.”

 

She gets him set up and logged in, then sits down next to him. Having her right there is a little distracting, makes him self-conscious, but he tunes it out and goes to work. It takes him a while; he has to download some software to do the tracking. He tries calling Bobby while he’s waiting, thinking Dean might have gone there to work the dent out of his door panel. He’s not surprised when Bobby says no—it’s a good eight-hour drive from here and Dean probably couldn’t have gotten there yet, even the way he drives. The roadhouse is closer and Sam calls there next, with no luck. Ellen says she’ll let him know if she hears anything. 

 

The software finishes and Sam starts it up, plugs in Dean’s number. No signal. Dean’s shut his phone off. Sam’s irritated but not particularly surprised. Dean’s got to turn the thing back on eventually—to order a fucking pizza or something. Sam rejects the idea that Dean’s gotten a new phone already. He’ll worry about that when he has to. 

 

He slumps back in the chair and looks at Kelly. She’s been sitting there quietly, except when he asked for something.

 

“I’ll just wait a while and see if he turns his phone back on. If that’s okay,” Sam says, with an uncertain smile.

 

“Sure. Then what?”

 

“You mean when I find him?”

 

Kelly nods.

 

“I have to go get him.”

 

“Really?” She raises her eyebrows. “Because…I’m sorry, Sam—I see you’re upset over this and I can’t blame you but…you know, your brother’s an adult…maybe he just needs some time.”

 

He looks at the floor. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Dean doesn’t do this, just run off. This is something else.” 

 

“So last night—that was ‘something else,’ too?”

 

It’s a legitimate question and God knows she’s earned the right to ask, but Sam can’t form words to answer. His shoulders are drawn up into knots and so is his stomach. Every reply he can think of feels disloyal or untrue. 

 

A red dot flashes on the computer screen. Sam’s seldom been more relieved. 

 

“Got him.” Sam slides the mouse to the location. He’s not smiling when he meets Kelly’s eyes. “Guess I’m going to Jackson Hole.”

 

He just has to figure out some way to get there. He pulls the credit card out of his wallet and brings up the account on the screen. There should be enough left on it to rent a car. Sam types in the password, then makes a disgusted noise. The account’s been closed. 

 

Sam starts to figure out his next move, sorting through ideas and options in his mind while wondering what the hell is going through Dean’s. Dean doesn’t know him at all if he thinks this is going to stop Sam from coming after him. And why is he trying so hard to do that anyway?  _What were you thinking, Dean?_

 

Then it hits him. The answer is sitting right in front of him. 

 

Dean’s decided that Sam belongs here, with Kelly, and he’s done everything he can to make him stay. Sam looks at her then, and he can see it. She is everything he wanted once, and he lets himself think about it for a minute, lets a picture form of what life with her would be. It’s like a nice dream, too fragile to stand up to the storm that’s coming. If he’s got to live his life under a shadow, he’s going to face it head on, not hiding, and especially not dragging somebody like Kelly into the dark with him.

 

He rubs his hands over his face and when he takes them away, he can see it in Kelly’s eyes—she knows he’s made up his mind. He stands up to go and she walks to the door with him. She steps in close, but they don’t touch.

 

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Kelly asks. Sam frowns, opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. Kelly shakes her head. 

 

“Never mind. Stupid question,” she says. She puts her hands against his chest and dips her head, before she raises her eyes to him and speaks again. 

 

“Sam, I get it, I really do. He’s your family. It’s just…I have to say…this right here? It feels a little like you’re running away.” He doesn’t have an answer for that. She studies him for a moment, then continues.

 

“Where does it end, Sam? Is this the life you want?”

 

He closes his eyes for a second. He thinks it’s the first time anyone’s ever asked him that, but it doesn’t matter anymore. There’s really only one answer left. 

 

“It’s the only life I have.”

 

**

 

It’s cold and getting colder, big fluffy snowflakes already starting to fall, when Sam walks out of the little house for the last time. He’s dressed in as many layers as he can, left behind everything he can’t comfortably carry, although he didn’t have to get rid of much. Dean took all the weaponry, the really heavy stuff. 

 

He heads toward the downtown area, walking fast to warm up. His bad ankle complains insistently at first, but subsides to a dull throb he can mostly ignore after a few minutes. There’s a pawn shop on the main drag and he makes that his first stop, coming out with another hundred and fifty dollars in exchange for the disabled laptop. That and the cash Dean left him should take him the five hundred and some miles to Jackson. He just needs a way to get there. 

 

He walks casually down the street, weighing his options. It’s a small enough town that some of the parked vehicles aren’t locked, but he’s getting nervous about attracting attention when he finally finds the ten-year-old pickup truck. He would have liked four-wheel drive with the way the snow is already coming down, but he figures it’ll do. He slides into the passenger side. He pulls out his knife and strips the wires, has it started in a few seconds. 

 

Sam looks at his watch as he pulls on to the interstate. The snow is blowing across the road, but it’s not slick yet. It’s an eight-hour drive. He settles in for the ride. 

 

The radio works, but there isn’t much for it to pick up once he gets out of range of Denver, and Sam’s stuck with his thoughts for company. He’s jittery with tension, stretched taut between what he’s leaving behind and what’s ahead of him. Kelly’s not going to be easy to forget and Sam’s not sure he’d have it any other way, but there’s just nothing there for him. The only thing to do now is to find Dean and get them back on the road. Let Dean function in his natural element, and Sam can try to figure out some purpose to this mess they’re in, something he’s good for.

 

The snow doesn’t slow Sam down much and he pulls into Jackson about nine o’clock. He knows where Dean’s staying from the GPS, and it only takes a few questions aimed at the female desk clerk to find out what room he’s in. The Impala’s not there, but a few more questions about the local night spots narrow it down quite a bit. It doesn’t take Sam long to locate the car, in front of a bar called “Jake’s Place.”

 

Sam walks inside and up to the bar, taking the place’s temperature and ordering a beer. Jake’s is not big or especially busy. Most of the patrons seem to be men sitting alone, quietly and diligently getting drunk. He spots Dean quickly, shooting pool with another guy in the back. Sam takes his beer to a booth situated in Dean’s line of sight, waits for him to finish his game. 

 

The game ends, but no money changes hands. Dean slides into the booth opposite Sam, not looking particularly surprised to see him. Of course, he doesn’t seem all that happy about it, either. 

 

“Why are you here?” Dean asks dully, eyes red and tired-looking.

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Sam replies. 

 

“It’s my job, Sam. Why can’t you see…” Dean pauses, sighing heavily. “What do you want from me? You’re on your feet again. Go back to your girlfriend, your little house in the suburbs…your fucking _dog_ , for Christ’s sake.”

 

“Dean, we’ve been over this. That’s not my life. What are you trying to do?”

 

“I’m doing my fucking job, Sam,” Dean says heatedly. “This is what _I_ do.You don’t need to be here; you have options.”

 

“Options? Seriously? Fucking death visions! Tell me, Dean—how do I opt out of those?”

 

Dean leans forward, frowning fiercely. “Keep your voice down, you idiot!”

 

Sam stands up and looms threateningly over Dean. “I’m not _going_ anywhere, Dean! What’s it going to take for you to get that?” Sam says, raising his voice, but not quite yelling.

 

Dean’s up and in his face in a heartbeat, and Sam’s not ready for it when Dean gives him a hard shove. He stumbles back, toppling a chair. 

 

“Get out of here,” Dean grits harshly.

 

“No.” Sam says, staring him down. Dean closes his eyes for a second, turning his head and body away. Sam doesn’t see the roundhouse right coming.  

 

Sam’s head snaps back and he staggers. He tastes blood and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He hears a yell from off his right shoulder, sees someone approaching out the corner of his eye. This is getting him nowhere. Sam warns the bouncer off with an outstretched palm, says, “It’s okay. I’m leaving.” He gives Dean one last look and walks out. 

 

**

 

Dean waits until the door closes behind Sam before he sits back down. He’s not feeling particularly good about hitting his brother, again, but he’d do a lot worse to get him out of this life for good. Dean has the hard drive with all their research on it and Dad’s journal. That’s all he needs. 

 

Dean rubs his eyes, and even he can’t ignore how his hands shake.  _Shit._  Maybe he can call Sam in a week or two and smooth things over or something. Things will never be like they were—Sam was right about that even before what happened to Dad—but maybe they can figure out something else, some other way to be brothers again. Dad wanted him to save Sam; maybe this is how it’s supposed to be. 

 

Dean drinks, killing another hour before he decides to head back to his room. He grabs a six-pack and some food on the way. He’s not hungry, but he’s got work to do tonight—phone calls to make, some leads to check out before tomorrow.

 

He sees it as soon as he walks through the door of his room—familiar jacket lying on the bed. Dean’s seen it in a hundred other motel rooms, draped across the seat of his car, balled up under Sam’s head for a pillow.  _Damn it, Sam._ Dean’s too tired for this shit. 

 

He looks for him, has almost decided Sam’s not in the room when he sees him, lying on the floor between the beds.

 

“Sam?”

 

Another goddamned vision.

 

**

 

# Epilogue

 

“Um, Kelly, this is Sam. I found Dean, but, well…something’s come up in Oregon and we’re headed out there. I just wanted to say thanks, you know, for everything…anyway, yeah. Just wanted to let you know. Bye.”

 

Sam thumbs the call end button and climbs into the already running Impala. Dean drives west, doesn’t speak. He probably thinks Sam is fighting the post-vision headache, and he is, but the pain isn’t the only thing rattling around in his head.

 

_Where does it end, Sam?_

 

Sam thinks Kelly asked the wrong question. What matters is _how_ it ends. And who he is when the end finally comes. 

 

Sam closes his eyes, thinking maybe he can doze a bit, ride out the rest of the headache. Dean’s voice startles him.

 

“So…we really don’t know what we’re getting into here. Are you sure you’re up to this?” Dean asks, glancing over at him. 

 

Sam looks at him briefly, then turns his eyes to the road spinning out in the headlights. 

 

“You know we have to go, Dean.”

 

Dean persists. “I just don’t want you going in there at half-speed, you know, with your bad foot and all.”

 

Sam looks at him long enough that Dean raises his eyebrows questioningly, then says, “I’m not worried about it. You’ve got my back.”

 

Dean’s mouth twitches slightly. Sam would like to think it’s a smile.


End file.
